Après la Pluie, le Beau Temps
by serendipity024
Summary: Christine continues her life with two children in tow, as her husband is called away for mysterious reasons. His past, however, has a way of crawling back into both of their lives. A story of a couple conquering their fears: separated and united.
1. Chapter 1

_**Après la pluie, le beau temps**_

 **Christine**

 **April 1884**

The thick, harsh bristles of the scrub brush argued their tiredness as her hands, stinging from the lye, forced them onward. Despite the severity of her labors, her actions were rhythmic. Josephine was admiring her older brother, her eyes humbly following the notes Alexandre plucked out, which Christine echoed in the abuse of her brush. The floor, after all, was in a state of absolute sham, with her absence being the cause. A relaxing visit to Meg's flat in Orleans had brought to light the loneliness she had attempted to hide from her children. This meant the floorboards were in the unfortunate position of receiving the bulk of her ire. And still, she had yet to repaint the porch steps, now severely chipping from different pairs of feet pounding upon it over the years. Staring down at the red digits -slowly resembling the skin of a tomato, her mind wandered to the revealing conversation in Meg's sitting room.

Meg and her husband, a man of the name of Pierre Giumon, first cellist at the Garnier, lived comfortably. The couple would often stay in the dormitories afforded to company members at the Opera during the season, retreating to the town of Orleans, a few hours by train outside of Paris. They preferred to avoid the crowded streets of France's capital city. Meg, being _Prima Ballerina_ going on five years, was continuing to attend taxing rehearsals with grace and optimism. The strain that ballet place upon the joints, holding harsh, unnatural positions for so long, only allotted a few years for a dancer to be in the spotlight. Meg was making the best of the time she had.

Seeing Christine only a few times since her friend's sudden marriage to the mysterious Monsieur Opera Ghost following the night of _Don Juan_ , she grew to accept her choice in husband. The couple had been there, celebrating her subsequent marriage to Pierre. Erik had approved, even offering compliment to the bridegroom on his musical technique as well as choice of wife. They had also been in attendance for her mother's funeral, a small affair, nearly a year later, in which Erik offered to help her husband carry her coffin, placing it gently into the ground. Over the years, Meg could see how the seemingly odd pairing had truly thrived together, and understood him more a human and less a ghost. They were loyal friends.

Antoinette Giry, having only passed a few years prior, bequeathed a surprising small fortune to her daughter. The Opera ghost had evidently valued her services immensely, to neither Meg nor Christine's knowledge, and it showed. As ballet instructor and lead choreographer of the Garnier for close to thirty years, there would not have been a day in her life in which she was not working. Her mother was nothing if not valued. Succumbing to a quick bout with pneumonia, Meg was relieved that she went without a lingering illness, one that would keep her bedridden and impotent. The 'idleness' of old age surely would have killed her in and of itself.

Gingerly handing Christine a cup of tea-with extra cream and sugar, (just as she liked it) Meg finally had the opportunity to speak plainly with her closest friend. Taking a sip, Christine smiled, her effort evident, and set it down. Christine knew what this conversation would comprise of. With the maid watching Christine's two children, the two women had a moment of peace. Meg needn't begin with small talk, they knew each other well. So she began with the most pressing issue.

"Christine, how long did he say this would last?"

"About a year, enough to complete the palace and its surrounding apartments. And before you remind me, I know. I know it's been much too long."

"Ma cher, I am sure there are a myriad of reasons as to delay on the site. Weather, limited funds, lack of labo-"

"I know Meg." she said quietly. Meg knew her friend had thought this over many times. "I just know that he would have done anything to come back. He agreed to finishing what he designed in the years he lived at court previously. No more, no less, and still, it should not have taken as long as it has. This is what scares me. Meg, they can make him do terrible things, they can do terrible things."

"I understand", she said plainly. She could offer no solace, no peace.

"I feel this anger Meg, an anger that seems to grow from within me. They took him from us, when we needed him most! They want him for their own leisure, to provide them amusement with his music and tricks!" Her speech grew harsher and quicker, picking up volume. A usually controlled and genteel Christine spilled forth her emotion. "Our children need their father, I need my husband!"

Meg could only give take her hand and offer her sympathy. It had been much too long. Three years. Three years raising the children alone and running a small farm far away from town had taken a toll on her friend. She knew it wasn't the physical stress, though, but the loss of yet another person in her life. The loneliness that it can bring, even when surrounded by the children.

"Meg, I can't stand it. She continued, tears threatening to spill outwards "Every morning I wake up alone, praying that he'll be in the drawing room, that I simply forgot. Every time I turn a corner, I listen to see if I can make out his humming. When I sit, reading to the children, I imagine he is tapping my thigh, orchestrating some new melody. He has been part of my life for, my God, since my fifteenth year, a young girl! I have not sung in…" her hand drew to her throat. "I can't even remember" she quietly choked out.

"The children, they shall hardly know him! Alexandre was two when he departed, and he does not even know yet of Josephine's existence! Meg," clasping her friends hand, "She sits on the piano bench, tinkering at the keys. I so wish I could teach her properly, that I could teach both of them properly. Like he taught me. Every time I look at her, I see Erik. She is so much like him."

And how she was. Christine had learned of her pregnancy in the weeks following his leaving, staying with Meg in the days leading up to her delivery. Only having met a few times with Christine's husband, even Meg could notice the striking resemblance in his daughter- excluding the mask. Thick charcoal hair, carrying a shininess only characteristic in that of a child, contrasted against skin pale and pure. This contrast exuded a certain grace, aided by the presence of high cheekbones, perfect lips and defined eyebrows, creating a certain sense of regality. To complete the ensemble, she possessed bright eyes, unusually yellow in color, so much like Erik. The only clue that would lead any onlooker to believe the child was Christine's were the presence of curly locks, framing her small face. Even compared to their oldest, Alexandre, who seemed to resemble his father's likeness closely, Josephine was a replica.

"Christine, perhaps you should look into correspondence. I am sure the royal emissary could deliver letters, even in disguise."

"Oh Meg, were I able to, I would send thousands of letters, until my last breath, but he made me promise", the tears were plainly drawing lines down her cheek now, "that for the sake of the children, we cannot risk the Shah knowing of a family. Upon summoning him, he threatened his life were he not to agree. Were he to lose favor with the Shah, more than he already has, they could track us down, use the children as leverage in order for him to do their bidding. Meg- they know about Don Juan and the Garnier. I do not know how, but they do. La Daae would draw suspicion, especially at the royal emissary in Paris. Regardless, they must assume Erik has no friends, no allies, no weaknesses. I cannot risk his safety, nor the children's." she paused, a flat tone manifesting in her speech, "Persia is not a friendly place."

Meg was a decisive woman, her years at the Opera House and her mother teaching her strength in the face of such trial. Watching Christine, the companion of her childhood, suffer yet again to the crippling weight of loss, made her feel helpless. Yet she knew she was not, she could help. The euphemism made clear the danger of communication, and with no resort in terms of safe contact, she asked something she knew her friend didn't want to hear, yet needed to be said regardless.

"What did he tell you to do should he not return?"

The question hung in the air. In addressing the taboo subject, Meg was cutting through the positive assumptions and acknowledging what, may in fact, be reality. Somewhere inside, Christine knew this too. The look on her friend's face changed to something quite different, her eyebrows closing inwards and lips pursing shut.

"Meg, I canno-"

"Christine, your husband is not the type of man to be ill-prepared. What did he tell you?" she implored, grabbing both of her friend's hands, as if to drag the truth out of her.

Taking in a few shallow, rickety gulps of air, she hesitated, as if saying it out loud would solidify the reality of her situation.

"He told me to move on" she admitted.

It was quiet, almost barely noticeable, but Meg had gotten her answer.

"Then that is what you must do. Christine, I am assuming he left you a bank account, records, that he told you what to do? How to protect the children and yourself?"

Yanking her hand's from Meg's grip, Christine gaped at her accusingly. She looked down, and returned her gaze to stare upon her friend's tight features. Her friend was trying to help her by forcing reality up close. She realized that now. Meg had known loss- they both had. Christine had already lost one man in her life, she couldn't bear to lose another. Oh how she wished she could live in that false world, revel in it as she had done with her father! But it had taken much too long to pull herself out of that world, time that she didn't have now, raising children. Taking the half of herself and forcibly removing it from her grief felt like some kind of betrayal. But she was no longer a child now, no. She was a woman grown, having children of her own. It was time to put away childish things.

"You are right Meg."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Two years later, October 1886

The autumn winds blew chilly and cold. As the small harvest of various vegetables Christine grew at the farm were sold to various traders and merchants in town, Christine was afforded, unfortunately, ample free time. Before he left, he made the family relocate from Paris- for their own safety. If the Shah became aware of his prized architect's family, it could lead right to them. Being famous all over Paris and beyond for the Garnier affair involving diva _La Daae_ had already garnered suspicion. It was best for the family to keep to themselves. Christine was an introvert anyway. Although she kept in contact with Meg, and was friendly to various neighbors, having their children play together, she could not let them know of her past at the Opera. Any fool in Paris with want for a monetary reward could slyly inform a Persian diplomat, the Shah would ensure his men would be keeping alert for such information.

Various duties that comprised life beyond the outskirts of La Rochelle kept the summertimes vibrant for the children and herself. A bustling maritime trade center, the port city boasted vast Gothic cathedrals, ample supply shops, and beautiful ocean vistas. Every so often she would take the children to the shoreline. She yearned to be as carefree, as she was in Sweden, despite her and her father's poverty. At low tide, the waves broke over the land, creating millions of new patterns in the drenched sand. She found herself wishing her husband was there to see the children play together, and she prayed for his return.

Living without Erik had forced her to resort into the deepest reaches of herself to find strength. It was the first time in her life in which she was truly on her own. Although his departure caused her to experience loneliness and worry more powerful than she had ever known, she kept busy with a reliable routine. Anxiety towards her husband's well being wouldn't do him any good here.

Brutus had a loyal habit of waking her up, licking her hand as if gently reminding her to prepare for her daily tasks, lest she fall into the trap of being swallowed by the ever-present lull of solitude. Growing to love the two creatures, they dutifully kept watch, night and day. Macbeth would often sleep with the children, the ever watchful Scottish King. Christine would muse that he was keeping watch for his enemies. Erik's humor was never without wit. She felt safer with the creatures. Thankful for her husband's foresight, she mentally covered the many responsibilities in running the farmhouse she had to accomplish in the day. And she had thought voice lessons were hard.

Throwing the several quilts off her person, Christine softly pet Brutus in praise, his wagging tail a response of thanks. Before the children awoke, she was allowed a few moments to herself. Although taking a bath seemed heavenly at the present, she knew their horse, Traveler, would be hungry at the moment. The horse had an awful habit of kicking to stall door when she felt she was ignored. Christine thought the mare's namesake ironic, since it was Oberon that was doing the globetrotting. Still, she served Christine well, patiently enduring children's harsh pats and demurely pulling carts and carriages when needed. Christine quickly dressed herself, pulling her hair up haphazardly.

Trekking out to the barn with Brutus, Christine grabbed the mare's halter, entering into the stall and placing it on her. She briefly stroked the the horse's mane, leaning her head against her strong neck.

"It is much to early." She almost breathed out.

Traveler seemed to agree, snorting in concurrence. Christine laughed at this, a welcome release after feeling a stranger to it. She lead the mare to the pasture, unhooking her harnesses and filling up her water; throwing ample amounts of hay in with. She would need to call on the ferrier soon, looking at the horses' overgrown hooves.

Upon doing a thorough sweep of the small barn, Christine was nearly finished when she noticed the small chest, which kept various tack items; saddle blankets and the like. But it also kept something else, something she refused to think about using. It kept a rifle.

Erik had left it, showing her how to load and unload the weapon, showing her how to shoot it should she need to defend herself. She didn't want to have to use it. It had been kept up in the barn since she he had left, and taking it inside solidified the fact that she-inadequate protector as she was, was all the children had. The dogs had helped aid this anxiety, but staring down at the gun, she knew she must be realistic. Should someone dare to rob the house, or worse... Putting the thought aside, Christine made up her mind. There were hundreds of bullets in her desk drawer, she started practicing. She would not risk her children's lives for the shadow of her silly fear.

Christine typically took the children to church on Sundays, just recently beginning to offer her voice in the responsorial psalm. To any parishioner, her singing sounded beautiful, ethereal, even, but Christine knew better. The lack of use had resulted in her voice falling into disrepair. Her range had diminished and her awful habit of tightening her jaw had returned. She could no longer claim the title of _La Daae_ now. Oh, how he would berate her! But they both knew it was necessary, necessary to execute the art of music properly.

"Christine," he briefly sighed, shaking his head. "I can hear the tension. Once again, relax."

She was eighteen, before she ever graced the stage as Marguerite, before it all happened. Her rendition of _'Il Capro e la capretta'_ from Mozart's _The Magic Flute_ wasn't bad, per say, in fact, it was excellent; rivaling any seasoned opera veteran. They had been at it for hours.

To her teacher, 'close to perfection' would not be tolerated.

"Maybe I wouldn't be so tense if you weren't so unnecessarily strict" she mumbled.

He audibly scoffed, his visible eyebrow raised in exasperation. "Tell me, Mademoiselle Daae, that you did not just address your tutor in such a manner"

"You never allow me praise. It is always criticism. I have practiced every day for nearly three years and yet as you say, I am not ready to audition for principal roles. I am an adult!"

"I do this, as I know you can achieve perfection!"

"You treat me like a child!"

"Isn't it children who are in need of praise?"

"Ughhh!" She huffed and stomped her foot on the wooden floorboards, loud enough to echo into the adjoining room. A perplexing show for an adult, who, looked more akin to a toddler than a grown woman at the present moment.

They stared at each other, each measuring their opponent, determining who would challenge the other next.

"Chris-"

She began with a steady, even tone-"I only wish to be treated realistically. I know you wish me to sing to the best of my ability, but I cannot achieve this 'perfection' you speak of, for I am merely a human being". Turning on her heel, she brisked off, chestnut curls bouncing innocently at her back. For once, she left without being dismissed. Perhaps she had grown up right under his nose, or, his sorry excuse for one.

"You are wrong, you can" he murmured. "for you are an angel".

Recalling these moments of adolescent fury made Christine quietly smile to herself, kneeling in prayer following communion. She thought herself so mature in that time, all knowing and steadfast in her desires. He must have loved her, even in the very beginning, for no one could have put up with her former self for so long. And so, continuing her prayer with the small memory occupying the back of her mind, a thought seemed to appear before her. She had done it once, with him, and perhaps she could do it again, alone. She would retrain herself. Never entertaining the idea of vocal training without her tutor, the very concept had never been conceived. She knew the exercises, the warm-ups, the stretches, she had done them countless times. Knowing enough piano to play basic scales and recount training drills, she could do this. She had spent too long standing by the piano bench in her dressing room as he crafted her voice into something magnificent. She would not allow their years of constant effort to go wasted. She would show her children that one does not simply lay idle and forfeit years of hard work. Yes, she would do this for him, but she would also do this for herself. She would earn her voice back.

Perhaps the steadfastness and stubbornness of her youth hadn't faded completely.

And as autumn gently crept into the eloquent farmhouse, it could be heard from outside the humble practicing of a former opera diva running through basic scales, followed by the rumble of children's laughter as their mother would pair the notes with amusing faces. Making time for at least a half hour of practice, she would put the children to bed, typically after, as they loved hearing their mother sing, be it just solfege.

It was one of these crisp nights, one was just starting to see their own breath permeating from their speech in the outside air, that her daughter ventured to ask a question.

"Mama" Josephine begged. The girl had just turned five. "please please please tell us more about Papa?"

They had finished supper, and having given table scraps to the dogs and shelving everything away, it was time for their nightly ritual. In the months following her visit to Meg, Christine had made a concerted effort to create at least a semblance of normalcy in her children's lives. To fill their lives with happiness and laughter was her greatest wish for them, and so she would ensure to block out time at night for games, performances, puzzles, stories, whatever pastime that would allow the family a moment together. It was not fair to the children that their lives should be so compromised without their father; she was always so busy, running the home, buying things they needed, keeping bank records, teaching them; it was important to her that they understand the concept of fun.

It was Alexandre's wish to serve at the evening's performer with a simple parlor song, and just as he began warming up at the piano, his younger sister asked her mother something discussed in very little detail. Their father.

Josephine looked up at her mother with wide eyes. She had recently turned three, and her yearning for knowledge was never be satiated. Yes, much like her father, Christine thought to herself.

Alexandre quieted the piano at once. Perhaps Josephine had sensed a change in her mother, a new lightness that permeated through the house, her smile coming more easily when she would kiss her cheek, her singing once again.

Of course, they knew of their papa; Alexandre having blurry memories of him when he was very small- his mask, his towering height, but little else. They knew why he had to leave, and that he loved them very much. Despite this knowledge, it was a taboo subject in the house, the children sensing their mother's melancholy when she stared into the window, looking outside as if she'd spot something rising out of the horizon line. These moods, to the children, wouldn't last for long, as Christine grew adept at hiding them, the undercurrent of grief only apparent in moments when she was too weak to conceal it, which was not often. Even so, they understood to ask little of their father. Either way, Christine hadn't the will to tell them everything else, that there was so much more to their father. That he was the most fascinating person she'd ever met. That he taught her, that even he being nine years her senior, they grew up together. That he had never once dreamed of being a father. That he was in a dangerous place. That he could make her smile like no one else. And yet, she realized, as Erik's children looked up at her, they deserved to know. Setting the dishcloth down, Christine forced herself over to the parlor and fell into his leather reading chair. It seemed fitting.

"What do you wish to know, _ma cher_?" she replied with a calm smile.

Josephine seemed shocked, she had not expected her request to yield such bountiful results. Alexandre echoed the sentiment, stalking over from his seat on the piano bench to placing himself on the fine Persian rug, ready to help warm the home in the upcoming winter months. Josephine followed her brother, depositing herself on the floor with great excitement. They were situated surrounded by fine furnishings, modern, with new electric lighting, and more than comfortable in the long french winters. A house of several bedrooms, one that Erik joked would be filled with many children, followed by a chaste kiss on the forehead and a devious grin on his face, they had moved there when Christine was pregnant with Alexandre.

"This shall do." Erik cast a quick glance and bluntly articulated.

"It shall do? Ma cher, it is wonderful, and by the sea! You know how it reminds me of Sweden." She wrapped her arms around him snugly, breathing in the subtle hints of cologne and soap lingering on his cravat..

The corners of Erik's lips turned upwards.

"What is he like?!" her daughter uttered with barely controlled composure.

They both watched with eager faces. "Well, he is smart, very smart, like you!" she touched her children's noses and smiled, admiring how their faces lit up at the smallest inkling of knowledge. They both leaned in, desperate for more.

"He is the best dresser I know, always properly attired. And he is a perfect gentleman, impeccable manners. Why, now that I recall, he once laid out his cloak out so I wouldn't stain my dress in the mud!" Josephine giggled at that, admiring the gallantry her father exuded in wooing her mother.

She couldn't get enough, "Mama, what does Papa look like?"

This was inevitable. It was normal, natural even, for her daughter to ask this. Christine was presented with the parental quandary. It wasn't exactly a _secret_ , now was it? Rather, it was something they needed to know. She had thought of retrieving the small portrait Christine had forced them to take following their wedding, but it was gone. She hadn't seen it in years. She cursed herself for it, having lost one of the only evidences of him. Would Josephine be surprised by the mask? Would she think it a game? Did Alexandre remember its purpose? Had he figured it out? Christine didn't know, deciding it to be best to tell them the truth. It was best to hear this coming from her, rather the discovering their fathers.. _abnormalities_ upon his return.

"Josie, he had a mask!" Alexandre butted in.

So he did remember. Regardless, she had some explaining to do.

"Yes, ma petite, your father does wear a mask." She sighed deeply, praying God would offer her the right words. "Half of his face, it is… well, different. Yes, different from the other half."

The children continued to stare. This wasn't going to cut it.

"Many people, they are afraid. Afraid of his -er difference. This is why he wears a mask."

Alexandre cut in "Mama, was he born like that?"

"Yes." It was all she could say.

"That is sad. Why did God make him like that?" Josephine added.

"I do not know." It was honest, at the least. "Sometimes we do not understand what God does. But we must not pity him. He is strong, he has made a life, despite it all." She seemed to run out of words. This explanation was not the most eloquent; she yearned for the ability to pluck the right words out of seemingly nowhere, like Madame Giry, like him.

They all sat there a while, pondering what was just said. Alexandre had the bravery to turn the conversation towards a new direction.

"Does he sing, Mama, like you?"

"Oh! My darlings" she beamed at the recollection. Her face regained its life. "He possesses the most wonderful voice, alike that of an angel! He taught me how to sing, and I am sure he shall sing you two pretty lullabies upon his return, and shall weave the most beautiful melody upon his violin!"

It felt good to talk about him. It made him more real, as if he wasn't a dream she conceived of. It turned him back into a real part of her life, and she began to learn to treasure their time together, not drowning in their time apart as before. Yes, she missed him fiercely, but it receded to a dull ache, never to go away, like the many scars on his back, but to heal. She had plenty of blessings in her life, _two_ to be exact, and she would not waste the time she had with her children mourning over the time she had lost with him.

"Mama, do you think that he shall teach me to play piano, more than I know now?" Alexandre leaned in, a worried look on his face as if his mythical father would say no.

"Of course, Alexandre. He loves you very much. He loves you both very much."

"But he has never met me. How can he love me if he does not know me?" Josephine inquired.

Oh, she was smart. Sifting through her brain for a rebuttal, an brief feeling of harsh truth struck her. What if her daughter was past childhood by the time he came back? Or worse still, what if they would never meet? She couldn't bear to think of it. Would she tell her daughter this unfortunate possibility? Christine hated to think of it. She finally settled upon one that she believed with the entirety of herself to be true.

"Josephine, do you know your father?"

"No." It was quiet.

"But do you love him?"

She mulled it over a bit. "Yes!", was her final decision. Christine smiled.

"Love is strong, my dear. It is the strongest thing of all. You must have faith in it."

Confused, but somehow satisfied with her mother's answer, she nodded.

"Alexandre, would you like to play for us now?"

He practically jumped to the piano seat. `


	3. Chapter 3

Winter 1886

As the days became shorter, and her time wasn't as occupied with summer chores, Christine began to focus her attentions more on her children, educating them in the basics of grammar, music theory, and mathematics. Alexandre was soon to turn eight, and it was time to get serious about such academic pursuits. A bored child does not lead to good, she knew that, citing herself in her youth. Her own 'textbook' education being limited, her experience favoring the arts, she taught them as best as she could. Nevertheless, Christine was not a stupid woman. In her times of leisure, she was never one to turn down a book or two. Only a few days prior did she pick up _Ghosts_ , a play recently translated to French. Meg had mentioned it briefly during her visit, and the Norwegian playwright by the name of Ibsen was making news in the upper echelons of french society. Although physically isolated from the artistic world, she still appreciated things of a higher vain, having been fostered by them herself. She strove to pass this appreciation to her children one day.

Missing him still lingered within her very soul. She never gave up hope of his return, but she no longer would glance from reading her book to look out the window. She had other people, in that very house, that she would busy her time with.

Sitting at the quaint table located in the parlor, Christine noticed her children staring out the window, the eldest resting his sharp chin lazily upon his unused palm. Obediently, the pair sat still, tracing letters, Alexandre writing sentences of his choosing. She felt comradery with the two. Oh how she could relate to the tiredness of being a student! But now, it was she who was the teacher. Perhaps Erik had felt guilty as well, working his own student to exhaustion. Deciding that they deserved a reward for their good behavior, she would release them early. After all, they had been at it for hours.

"Alexandre, Josephine, you may be excused. You two have done well today."

They immediately perked up. "Oh thank you mother!" Alexandre beamed.

Hearing the scrape of two chairs against wood floorboards, the children ran into the outdoors. Macbeth followed the children, bouncing happily. Brutus bothered to raise his head, then proceeded to return it back to its spot atop his large paws.

The moment in which her husband had brought the two dogs home had been an unexpected one. It had been only a few weeks before he left, before he received the foreboding letter of summons when they realized their time would be cut short.

She clutched the young Alexandre, then a bustling spirit of two, to her breast, eyeing her husband as he casually approached the newly painted front steps of the porch.

"Erik?" she inquired. Two pups, nearly full grown, trotted behind him, tongues hanging loose without a care in the world.

"Why, my dear, you must have protectors should I be away." She laughed at this, as the pups stumbled about, nearly tripping over their paws they had yet to grow into.

"Christine, we are no longer in the city, I must ensure the safety of the boy, of my darling wife. They are guardians." She nodded at this. "And besides" he added. "Every home is in need of some dogs."

Measuring up the filthy, intruding beasts, Christine was slightly afraid. They exhibited two sets of large pointed ears, a black splotch spanning the length of their backs, with matching sets of large teeth. Christine could do nothing but think of the Grimm Brothers' fairy tales her father would often read to her whilst passing through Germany. Red riding hood she was, indeed. Never being the closest friend to animals, she approached the two furry forms warily. Rather, she had always kept her guard around various fauna, the memory of her father being bucked by a horse vivid since her childhood, as they were travelling around Northern Europe, sharing their music.

Glancing at her husband, noting his swift nod, she reached her hand out. Being careful to pivot Alexandre away from them, (who seemed anything but bored with these new fuzzy creatures) she allowed the two of them to get a good smell. They barked in excitement, which made her jump, and proceeded to lick her hand. She smiled at this. Erik was amused at this exchange, his mouth threatening to show it.

She sighed. "And what have you named them, my love?"

"The large one is Brutus, the other Macbeth", he said. As if it was obvious.

Her eyebrows knotted at this. "But, Erik! That will surely bring bad luck, it is forbidden to utter Macbeth in the theater! And why did Julius Caesar voice the phrase 'et tu, Brute?'" She set Alexandre down, carefully watching him. The dogs seemed to be gentle, smelling him as young expressions of glee abounded, but she would make sure. And she would uncover the reasoning behind her husband's unconventional choice of Shakespearean namesake.

Erik shifted at this, although the humor that usually remained dormant was alive in his golden eyes. "Christine, I am a man of contradictions, what can I say?"

Just like the Opera Ghost. She couldn't argue with that logic, silly as it may be.

"Very well. But you shall train them.", giving him a peck on his exposed cheek.

And in the following weeks Christine would look out the window and see him doing just that.

"Alexandre, keep watch of your sister. And do not forget your coats! " She all but laughed at their visible excitement.

"Yes, Mama." They chimed. And with the click of a shutting door they were off.

When offered free time, the children typically would meander around the barn, creating imaginary stories and games as they sprung from spot to spot, crunching the fallen leaves with their boots. The snow had yet to fall, unusual for early December. With ample space to play, they each thoroughly enjoyed the sheer immensity of the grounds, especially a collection of trees adjoining the side of the home opposite the ocean: perfect for hide and seek.

But Alexandre had grown tired of this game, just like the seemingly never ending grammar lessons his mother liked to force them to complete. As the two walked along the pasture fence, he had an idea. Traveler, ever present and quiet as the land itself, looked back at him knowingly. Her head was raised high, chest puffed out, as if to intimidate the boy. Either he was too brave to care or too stupid to notice, but her tactics were in vain.

Whispering to his younger comrade in arms, Alexandre crouched down, making himself level with her.

"Let us see how fast the old lady can go."

Josephine's eyes mimicked tea saucers. Then she grinned, letting out an excited giggle.

He approached the horse with patience, nothing would sway him from his goal now. Oh yes, he had ridden the mare before, but only with his mother present. In fact, she would caution the children away from Traveler. Being the young boy he was, Christine had never allowed Alexandre full control over the thousand pound animal. He was still much too young for such things, and she never was that good of an equestrian anyways. Much less a trainer.

This time would be different, however.

Unlocking the pasture gate, he quietly gathered up his courage and reached the animal, snorting with the whites of her eyes plainly visible. Heaving his frame up on the fence post, as he was too small to mount without assistance, he tested the horse by leaning part of his weight upon her side. Josephine watched with adept attention, leaning on the adjacent fence. Traveler's hooves began to fidget. She would soon figure out the full extent of his scheme and flee. Macbeth barked in warning, as if advising with his fellow animal's decision.

It was now or never.

Alexandre swung himself on and practically plopped on the mare's back, almost falling off the opposite side as a result. But he was big for is age, and kept on. Looping his fingers between the hairs of the mane, he grinned at Josephine.

And then he kicked. Hard.

Traveler was much older than him, probably approaching twenty, he had thought before this expedition. This much was true, except that her aging state had not limited her physical strength as much as Alexandre had previously perceived. With a grunt uncharacteristic of the once docile creature, two large, domineering hooves lifted upwards, briefly flying in the air and then harshly landing on the hard earth. This sent Alexandre into a panic, tightening his grip upon the coarse hairs until all blood had retreated from his knuckles. Only serving to further spook the horse, the tension upon her neck sent her into a frenzy. And with that she bolted.

Josephine knew immediately the severity of the situation. What started as lighthearted play had turned into a most dangerous game. Her older brother had galloped off into another world, for all she knew! Her mother would not like it. Still, the small girl stumbled upon the rickety porch steps. Macbeth followed, barking repeatedly.

Christine could sense something had gone awry. Looking at her daughter enter the house with wet cheeks, her stomach dropped.

"Josephine, tell me what has happened." She pleaded, approaching the girl's height, clutching her shoulders in anxiety.

"Alexandre… he… he-" Her small frame was aggressively sniffling now. Macbeth and Brutus were growing louder, begging to be let out.

"Josie, you must tell me, now." Christine's voice cracked on the last word. Should she lose one of her children, it would be a horrible pain. The worst imaginable. Incomprehensible.

"He… he was riding Traveler, and… and she ran away" The young girl clutched her mother with the strength Christine didn't know she possessed. Letting the dogs out, she watched them chase out towards the East. They must have went that direction.

Holding Josephine tightly to her chest, she followed the dogs as best as she could. She was careful to avoid the rocks and divets in the rolling grasses, restlessly covering the knolls as fast as her capability allowed.

The gate had only been partially open a few moments prior, but now Traveler broke through it with mighty prowess, much more akin to the moods of Oberon when he was a growing colt. Rattling echoing behind them in the distance, and wind whipping through his eardrums louder than a whistle, she carried him beyond the house, into the open fields of the French countryside. With no bridle and no reins, the young boy had no way of steering the beast, or slowing it down, at least not that he knew of. The only thing concerning him at the present was maintaining his current position, which proved to be difficult.

It was then a man, seeing the current debacle unfold as he was riding to his own destination, took notice that the young fellow was in clear need of help. Evidently, the horse was not taking him where he wanted to go. Watching the small form clutched snugly to the mare's withers, he spurred his own onward, pivoting his hardy pony so as to be even with the boy.

Allowing his target to pass him, the man sat upwards in the saddle, reaching a gallop, and eventually caught up to the young boy and his rogue animal. The two horses ran side by side for what felt a century to the boy, and as his eyes locked with the man, he shot him a pleading look. The boy's eyes were unnaturally golden, almost yellow in cover. This unnerved the man.

Fortunately, he dismissed the distraction and reached into a hidden pocket, situated underneath the saddle, plucking out a length of rope his friend had given him many months ago. It proved unexpectedly useful. He corralled the horse beside him, bringing them both to a loping canter. The boy, all too thankful to be once again at a reasonable pace, virtually launched himself off of the mare's back.

Alexandre stumbled backwards, catching his breath and admiring the valor of his sudden savior. The man met halted the horses, sliding off his own and gazing down on him with worry. He approached slowly.

The man looked different to Alexandre. With a thick black beard, square jaw, and brown skin, he was unlike any he had seen before. He marveled at strange man's bravery and skill. Catching a spooked horse was not an easy feat, especially to an impressionable young child. Eventually recalling his manners, and quitting his gaping, he blurted out-

"Thank you monsieur."

The man smiled, a knowing tone in his voice. "My boy", he enunciated his vowels with foreign lilt to his speech. "I must inquire, are you alright?"

The man seemed anxious. Alexandre did not understand why, he was the one at fault here. He fidgeted his hands together.

"Yes monsieur." He nodded guiltily.

"Has your father not taught you to be mindful among animals?" He said this, patting Traveler to calm her tiring frame The question was worded accusingly but was delivered calmly. This man was strange indeed.

"My father is gone." He responded honestly.

It was then the man realized. The golden orbs should have alarmed him at the start. This boy had the same sharp features, tall stature, and dark hair of his father. According to the hasty map his friend had drawn and brief description of the area, he was close to his destination. He knew he was forever doomed to slave over the ever incomplete task saving his friend's hide, in one form or another. He had not expected this duty to span generations, however. Perhaps the Punjab Lasso had been put to good use after all, aiding the rescue of Erik's own son.

"You are Alexandre, am I not correct?" The boy immediately looked up in shock. So he was.

"Nadir Khan. I am a friend of your father's."


	4. Chapter 4

Erik

Southwestern Russia

March 1887

Every second he was not thinking of them he was cursing himself for his own stupidity. Oberon huffed, communicating his exhaustion from enduringly scaling the rugged terrain. The horse had aged significantly, as consequence to almost six years of constant travel. Erik felt likewise. Perhaps his few years of treasured joy with Christine had heightened his false expectations of the world around him. Distracted him from the true character of mankind. He had stupidly hoped for a quick return, one that was promised. That _he_ had promised. Perhaps they all should have run from the start. But it didn't matter now, anyway. He had thought he had played it safe, going back to the wretched country to preserve his family's safety, lest the Shah uncover their existence with further investigation as to his whereabouts. After several failed architects, the graying ruler would have his palace completed, dragging back his Angel of Doom by force if need be. And so, Erik reluctantly complied, hoping to quietly tie up the loose ends of his past.

This logic proved to only lead to imminent danger for his family and himself, however.

He knew the royal court. He knew of their characteristic propensity to warp truth, or in more direct estimation, _lie_ , especially the Shah. How then did he believe their word? Perhaps it was what he had wished to be true. Perhaps it was what he wanted to believe, that he could enjoy the one unexpected happiness in his once miserable existence. Maybe it was God punishing him. He had killed many people, lied and manipulated. The fairest punishment would be to take her away. He would wander until his last heartbeat puttered still, in hopes of keeping their safety intact. His rare joy was insignificant in comparison to his dear wife and son.

And so, he fled, aiming to drive the Shah's men off of his trail. He had sent Nadir to his home, to check up on his wife and son. Hopefully, he had arrived there by now. The pair had split up not long after they had fled Persia, planning to meet back up as Erik made his way to the far corners of the world in attempt to lead them off of his trail. After all, Erik was the one they wanted anyway.

It had been six years. Six awful, miserable years. Erik thought he knew torture. But to know happiness and have it taken away, swiftly and suddenly, he had never experienced anything worse. He would endure the deepest wounds of the lash upon his back, be kicked and beaten, drugged and abused, in order to regain them back. He felt exiled from his own life. Now, in the grasslands of Russia, he rode alone. God must laugh at his most hated son's fate now.

It was simple, really, how he ended up back in the desert. The Daroga had written him a letter, pleading for his presence. Living in Persia years before he had ever settled under the Garnier and met his angel, he served as Master architect and stonemason for the Shah, _among other things_. But that was no more. He had vowed.

The moment was innocent, domestic. A bitter contrast to his current state of being.

"Erik." Christine was propping young Alexandre on her hip, holding the post in her other hand. He was sitting at the piano, scribbling down something that didn't matter anymore.

"Erik." She approached him, a familiar smile tracing the outlines of her mouth. His hair tousled, mask out, waistcoat unbuttoned; this focused state was so like _him_.

"Yes, my love?" So, he must not have registered the first address.

"A letter, it is for you. It looks like it was sent to the Opera House. Madame Giry must have mailed it here. The return address is in a strange script."

Brow furrowed, he rose from the instrument, viewing the letter in earnest. With one glance, he accounted that it was from the Daroga, though he had no idea as to why his _acquaintance_ had sent such a letter. They hadn't spoke since Erik left, so why would he send such a letter _now?_ And how did he know where to contact him? Opening it worriedly, the torn envelope revealed within a small piece of paper, scribbled unceremoniously on and written obviously in haste. Christine could not tell, however, as she eyed it from behind, as it was written entirely in Persian.

 _Erik-_

 _Your original design is not possible lacking your presence. The Shah knows of the Opera affair-rumors,-little else. Neither I nor the Shah know much of this relationship with Madmoiselle Daae, but his guards will investigate the matter further to find you, if you do not come. You must come. I have failed to keep you here, and if I fail to bring you back, I believe they will kill me. May allah watch over us both._

 _Nadir Khan_

Erik merely stared at the words. The simple note threatened to upend his family, his _entire life_ in mere seconds. He knew of the danger. If Nadir was writing to him, surely the situation was dire. He had, after all, left Persia, and the palace, suddenly -almost on a whim- in search of something better. He had found it.

Christine. He had used _her name_. His stomach dropped and his ribs seemed to constrict around it. So they knew of his connection to her. But most likely not their marriage. No, they had been careful about that. Moving out of Paris proved to be the right decision indeed. Still, the Shah's trackers would uncover more, so as to lead to him, which would lead to his wife and son. Could they run? There was a chance that they would still find his family, and he would not ruin Christine's life yet again, subjecting her and a small child to a life without permanence.

He looked at the date on Nadir's note. If this was dated months ago, then could Khan already be dead? If so, then there was still potential leverage on him. Madame Giry had not sent him anything in warning, so the Shah's men were not in Paris, yet. Yes, it would be best to complete the palace, satisfy the Shah with no bloodshed and return.

"Erik." She repeated. This time there was no smile. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

She set Alexandre down, he was beginning to get very good at chasing about the house.

Christine inched closer, placing soft hands upon his chest. She knew something was very wrong by her husband's frozen state. Her eyes bore into his, pleading for an answer.

They stood like this for several minutes, breathing together, her comforting him, though she did not know why. What she did know, after nearly three years of marriage, was patience.

"The Shah wants me to complete the palace. He knows of the Opera affair, and if he finds out more, you and our son will be put in very great danger. I must return to Persia."

He looked past her, to some vague point. It was much easier revealing the truth to her without taking in her reaction.

This did not matter, however, as Christine allowed her forehead to follow her hands, resting upon his chest. She didn't want to look at him, either, just wanting to feel him, to make sure that he was there.

Her voice, so loud and triumphant on stage, turned into a closed mouthed murmur.

"When?" Her fingers tightly clasped the front of his shirt. In response, his arms enclosed her form in a humble embrace, resting his chin upon her soft hair so as to shield her more.

"I must not delay."

Soon. It meant very soon. Christine carried a synopsis of her husband's time in Persia, although brief. He had told her that the palace was left unfinished, much to the royal court's dismay. Erik had left suddenly, exhausted and disgusted from court life. Funny, he had left one superficial spectacle for another-the Opera House. She knew, although he did not reveal to her, that he was also disgusted with himself, his horrible crimes he felt he had yet to atone for. Erik had worked on various construction sites, mostly in Tehran and Mazandaran, and had done other _things_ to assist the Shah. She understood what that entailed.

But he could not leave! It was utterly ridiculous! For a stupid building! After all the trials they had endured, upended social convention and left behind their lives to start anew, he must leave? It was a sick joke. She had fought for-and won-her happiness, they had earned it _together,_ and now they must be alone yet again? She knew he had thought of every circumstance, that he would fight, bleed, kill to stay with them. She shivered. Her husband could no longer be that man. He was a better man, she witnessed the change every day, holding Alexandre, doting upon her during her pregnancy. There must be a way to keep him here. Where he belonged.

She broke away swiftly, seriously. "You cannot leave us."

It was then his yellow eyes shifted back at her. The weight of them were heavy.

"Christine, this is not a subject for debate."

"After everything, the life we have begun, you cannot leave! There must be another alternative. We can move! Run from these men after you and leave it behind us, just like the Opera House."

His jaw clenched as she began wildly pacing about the room, thinking.

"This is not something we can run from Christine."

"Surely your friend, Monsieur Khan, was it? He may help sort this out."

"That is not possible.", he mentioned cryptically.

"We can leave with you. This is a house, it means nothing to me when it is absent of you."

"No."

He was a brick wall. "Why not?!"

"I will not subject my wife and son to such danger! These men are not the Sûreté! Perhaps I have not told you fully, my dear, but my time in Persia was not comprised of leisurely desert strolls and exotic feasts!"

She advanced upon him. "You would leave your wife, your so-"

He grabbed her wrists, pulling her towards him once again. "You think I want to leave? You. Him? You think I would willingly abandon the one shred of happiness God has bestowed upon my wretched existence?" His tone turned towards an imploring one. "Christine, I will not allow my past, my mistakes destroy this family. You and our son will stay here, I will complete the damned palace, and I will return to you. I promise." He carefully brushed away a tear before it could make its way down to her jaw, leaning his forehead against hers.

"When will you come back?"

He inhaled slowly. "Six months, perhaps a year including travel."

The look in her eyes nearly swallowed him whole. His wife looked as if he was betraying her in some cruel way. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had betrayed her before he ever knew her, committing terrible and malicious sins, staining his soul. By tying his corrupt being to such a pure angel. Ripping her away because of his actions, now that was what the few Hindus he had met would call karma.

And so, that night he gave Christine the bank accounts, investment papers, several items of upkeep. He showed her how to load and fire a weapon; he would not take any chances. Sitting at the dining room table, Alexandre was deposited on his lap, playing with the gold pocket watch in his waistcoat. The dogs lay underneath. It was a perfectly domestic image that would soon be nothing more than a memory. Christine took it all in with a graceful stoicism.

"Christine, I want you and Alexandre to be comfortable. Should you need more money, there are ample funds to be withdrawn in the bank account in town. Monsieur Boudreaux is a trustworthy financier, you can turn to him."

He was only met with silence.

"Do you understand Christine?"

Her response was monotone, childlike. "Please don't go away."

He opened his mouth, searching for the appropriate words. There were none. This was the situation, which he had caused, and they were now forced to deal with its harsh reality. These were the words she would say to him through the mirror, long ago. Late at night, in which she would have a nightmare, or following a lesson, she longed for the presence of her angel. And he would willingly obey. But this was not then, and he could not acquiesce to her wishes. As if realizing this, she began to cry. Hard. Alexandre clung to his father, echoing his mother's sentiments. Rising from his current position, with Alexandre in tow, he placed his son to sleep. He quickly returned to see his wife bent over, sobbing into the table, her arms cocooning her delicate face. In the dim light he could view her fingers grappling the tablecloth in earnest.

He stood there for a few moments. This is what he had caused. He'd rather be damned than to see her like that again. Hurt, abandoned. He took off his mask. Approaching her gingerly, he lowered himself at her feet. The gesture was imploring and meek.

"Forgive me."

She immediately raised herself upright in the chair, revealing a face contorted in grief, splotched with red. Evidently she was not aware of his being in the room. He stared two adoring eyes back at her, pleading for her word of response.

Her deep breaths came slowly. After a few moments of quietness, she threw her arms around him, almost aggressive in their fervency. He was nearly knocked backwards, placing a leg behind them both in order to stabilize the sudden force. He clung to her, and she to him, as he carried her to bed. Kissing the salty drops away before laying her softy down, he brushed her soft hair out of her face. Kicking shoes off, he lay down behind, placing his hand upon her stomach so as to pull her closer. She let out a shaky breath.

"I will always forgive you. I love you."

And with that his facade of strength crumbled into a mess of tears. Christine turned around in his embrace, harboring him as if her hold would never let him leave.

That night was simple, almost innocent in its seeking, mild passion. They made love selflessly, comforting each other. It was merely an extension of an embrace. A wordless expression, as if to say, "I love you, goodbye".

Nevertheless, he could not bear to utter the words. Erik got up from the peaceful reverie that was Christine, gazed upon her sleeping form for a period, and burned it into his memory. Unlike the many times he had done so before, this was scientific, practical, an _inspection_. He drew within him strength he did not know he possessed to break away, grabbing the portrait and his small collection of things as he moved on to Alexandre's room.

Leaning down, so as to briefly kiss the sleeping child, his son turned and smiled in his sleep. Just like his mother. Erik proceeded to mimic the same committal to memory with the boy as he had done with his wife. He looked like him, if that was possible, sharp features and amber eyes, closed in his dreamless sleep. Erik's gratitude for a normal child was expressed continually.

He quickly turned, leaving him as Macbeth looked on, as if receiving the responsibility of caring for the young boy. The Angel of Doom gathered Oberon and left his new life to return to his old one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Christine**

 **December 1886**

Climbing up the rolling hill, breathing heavily as the smoke of her breath puffed outwards, Christine reached her goal: finding her son. Much to her distress, he was standing near an unknown man. They appeared to be speaking to one another. Upon further inspection, however, it looked as if he saved her boy; the taller figure in the distance was holding Traveler, patting her in order to calm the animal down. Nevertheless, the worried mother continued on, clutching Josephine in her arms as she approached the two with renewed anxiety.

Nadir immediately took note of the figure hastily approaching him. So this must be the mythical goddess Erik had spoke of. Christine. Nadir had pitied any woman who would bind herself to such a man as his friend, not just for his face, but his strange behavior and eccentricity. He didn't know what he had assumed, but he did not envision Erik's wife to look like this. Although tousled and worry-ridden, she was beautiful. Erik had not exaggerated about that. Her chestnut curls, tied up, much to their protest, poked out in various ways, as consequence to the violent exercise. It was quite charming.

And the small child in her arms? Had she remarried? Surely, a lovely woman such as herself could easily have. His heart dropped. Erik had loved her fiercely, but perhaps she had moved on. For all she knew, he could be dead by now! After all, it had been nearly four years. He did not know what his friend's reaction would be if Christine had remarried, surely nothing positive would come from it. He grimly imagined Erik being consumed in a fit of jealous rage, the anger that could powerfully take hold, overcoming his better knowledge and conscience. Her clear voice broke this thought, however.

"Alexandre!" She called. He ran to her, and she embraced him fiercely, holding the back of his head protectively.

"I am sorry, mama." He broke the embrace, hanging his head ashamedly.

"Are you alright, Ma cher?" She began inspecting for possible injury, lifting arms, feeling ribs, like any mother would.

"Yes, mama."

She lightly pressed the palms of her hands to his cheeks. "Alexandre, you musn't do such reckless things! You could have been killed! I was worried sick!"

The young boy merely hid his face downwards, hiding his shame.

"Monsieur Khan helped me."

Khan. She knew that name. Christine glanced upwards, suddenly remembering the presence of the stranger. So her estimation was correct, partially. She noticed no barking from the dogs, they merely sat, panting in the cold. The man had darker features, he looked to be Middle Eastern. Recovering her memory of those years ago, clouded over by the emotional fog of her husband leaving, she realized that she did know that name. This was the man that had sent the letter that had changed everything. From her intuition, he was one of Erik's few trusted friends, if not allies. What was he doing here? She immediately thought of the worst. Was he informing her of Erik's death? No, surely it was not possible. She loathed to believe it. Could she trust him? Regardless, he had just saved her son. Now it was her turn to thank him. Placing Josephine down, she faced him.

"Monsieur Khan, I must thank you for saving my boy. I do not know what I would do without him." It came out exasperated, yet honest.

"Madame, I am glad that I could be of service." He dipped his head downwards, revealing peppered black hair.

Her breath caught in her throat. Surely he knew who she was. Erik must have told him sometime, why else would he be here? Gathering all the courage she could muster, she addressed him with a genuine smile.

"Monsieur Khan, I believe we know of each other. I am Christine. It is a pleasure to finally meet you." She reached out a hand in greeting.

"I feel likewise. You have raised a most adventurous young boy. He is much like his father."

Alexandre beamed at that. Christine let out a light laugh, it almost sounded weak.

She did not know why he was here. Not yet. The information he knew was probably the subject on both of their minds. Her nerves bit at her. Just as she had almost lost her son that day, she could also lose her husband. She dared not think of it. Pushing the dark thought to the recesses of her mind, she turned back to the man standing before her, remembering proper etiquette.

"You have already met Alexandre." She said with smile. "This is my daughter, Josephine."

Any question that Nadir had in regards to Christine remarrying were thrown out the window. This was unmistakably, irrevocably, Erik's daughter. And he had thought his son looked like him. Although no facial deformity, the small girl looked like a small version of his masked friend. With thick black locks, she displayed defined eyebrows, a wide mouth, and sharp cheekbones. The girl's expression looked a century old. The child's yellow eyes stared quizzically upon his person. He had seen those eyes before, they seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Collecting himself, he lowered down, offering out a hand.

"Hello, Josephine. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nadir."

She hesitantly took it, not being accustomed to grown men. Still, she summoned up her courage and smiled at him. Her mother had taught her proper manners, after all.

Christine almost laughed at the exchange. He certainly looked shocked! Of course he did not know of another child, as even her husband was not yet aware. Josephine was odd enough looking for anyone to take in. She was beautiful, yes, but not in the way Christine looked. Christine possessed a soft kind of beauty, lovely and pleasant. Her daughter, on the other hand, held a kind of regal, stark definition of beauty. At the age of three her face was already defined in its expression, captivating in its uniqueness.

"Monsieur Khan, please, come inside to my home. I am planning on making a fine supper. I am sure you have travelled a long ways to find us here. You are a very welcome guest."

And so, upon thanking his gracious host, the former daroga followed the lady of the house and her two children, offering to put away both horses in his gratitude. Showing him up to his room, he gladly found that she had drawn him a most welcome bath, after being on the road for several months. She was about to leave him to freshen up for supper, when she remembered something.

"Monsieur, you are most likely wondering why there are two children instead of one."

Yes, that was something that passed through his mind. But what could he say? He remained silent.

"A few weeks following Erik's departure, I discovered I was pregnant. It was something I had not prepared for." Why did she feel she could trust this man with personal matters on after just meeting his acquaintance? Perhaps this quality is what Erik saw in Khan. Breaking out of the sentimentality, she realized she must prepare for the evening meal, as well as give Alexandre a stern talking to. Her son would be tracing letters for weeks.

"I will leave you to your devices, I shall be serving beef bourguignon." And with that she went to find her son.

So Erik had a daughter. And he did not know. He remembered spending those brief hours with his son when he was that young age. He remarked on how fast Reza had grown, longing for those days to repeat themselves somehow. How would he react? Surely Christine had thought of this many, many times. Nadir felt like he was cheating his friend, in that he had met Josephine before her father had. He only could pray that Erik would return soon, so as not to miss those fleeting moments of childhood in his daughter.

It was at this moment that he missed his wife, missed her feminine presence and gentle smiles. His son Reza had been only a few years older than Alexandre upon his death. Nadir was thankful that he could prevent such a disaster from taking place that day. He did not know how long the boy would have been able to keep hold of the mare. The loss of a child, whether drawn out, like Reza's, or sudden, is the greatest of any that one can experience. Nadir would not wish it upon the Shah himself.

Dinner was a welcome affair. Following several poor meals on the road, his tongue expressed its joy at the first taste of decent food in months. Finishing the fine supper, and chuckling at the children's disappointment in finding they had to go to bed, when such an interesting guest was present, the light tone shifted. Christine reappeared in the room silent and severe. She had waited for this all evening, mutely preparing herself. Her emotion that was kept quiet for years threatened to come back out. Still, she approached him calmly, sitting down at the dining table, in the spot Erik had been the night before his departure.

"Monsieur Kha-"

He waved out a hand, knowing the reasoning behind her behavior. With the children gone, their innocent ears put to sleep, now was her chance to discover the truth about Erik. It was his reason for coming here, anyway. Such an intimate conversation offered no place for formalities.

"Please, call me Nadir."

"Then you may call me Christine." She had agreed then. Her posture was straight. It looked as if she were preparing. Preparing for the worst.

"I will begin with what you will most likely like to hear first. Your husband is alive."

A literal breath of relief escaped her chest. Her hand clutched the delicate fabric of her dress, the other caught the edge of the tablecloth. The room was painfully still. She began to cry, the years of suppressed apprehension towards her husband's possible death, always weighing upon her very soul finally being released. Erik still lived, thank God. Christine often thought about the possibility that he may never return, and would then push it immediately to the back of her mind, forcing her attentions elsewhere. He had survived. But then again, how could she think any less of him? He was the strongest person she knew. Presently, it seemed silly to ever believe that her husband could be killed so easily. Her angel seemed immortal at times, recalling those days of her youth. Now her hope was confirmed. Now he could come back to her. Whatever had gone awry, he still had a chance to come home. To meet his daughter. She would rest on her knees for hours that night, thanking God for his act of mercy, an answer to all her prayers of the last six years.

Even after such revelation, she felt embarrassed, acting so emotional in front of a man she had just met. Briskly wiping away tears, Christine placed his hand in the both of hers. Her damp eyes spoke a thousand sentiments.

"Thank you, Nadir. You do not know what you have done for us."

The months of travel were well worth it witnessing the expression of gratitude on this young woman's face. It was then that Nadir knew that Christine truly loved the masked man. Any doubts of her devotion for his friend were cast aside right then and there. He would not have believed it without seeing her response at that dimly lit dining room table. Unsure in his ability of offering anything by way of comfort, he placed his free hand on top of hers, giving a quick bow of the head in acknowledgement. She released him, leaning back to a more relaxed position.

"Please, tell me everything. Where is he? What happened?"

What had happened? That was the question. He mulled over the possible ways he could articulate such a story. Erik trusted her with the truth, he knew as much. Still, it was difficult to speak with a woman about that danger her husband had gotten himself into, to word it in such a way that was comprehensible yet not brutal. He owed her the strength of his candor. She had not heard a word of him for four years, after all. Nadir decided to begin with the easier explanation, regarding Erik's whereabouts.

"I believe Erik is somewhere is Eastern Europe, possibly Russia."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. But she did not cut in. She wanted to know everything, and she would mutely push him to speak. So, his weak attempt to side-step the conversation had failed. He gave into her refusal to yield.

"Something went very wrong. The Shah found out about Erik's connection to… you."

They both drew in deep breaths. This is what Erik was ultimately afraid of. But how did they discover it? Erik was a secretive man, even she did not know everything.

"He had suspected from the beginning something was wrong. Erik was… shall you say, different- than before. He is not the man he used to be, I have witnessed it."

She merely nodded in concurrence. He was right in that assumption.

"It was as if he did not care about, anything, really. The Shah wanted to know the reasoning behind this change; he expressed so much to me. He would offer him hashish, command him to perform his 'tricks', like before, but in every instance Erik refused. Except completing the palace, of course. There were constant delays to the project, labor shortages, accidents, and both he and the Shah grew increasingly tense by the closing of every day."

He told her of that day at court, told her of the violence that ensued because of an image. And how the new former Daroga of Mazandaran and Angel of Doom had fled the country, covered in blood not their own.

"We were nearing the border of Romania, just leaving the Ottoman Empire, when he told me that it was time to part ways. I protested, but you know Erik. He would not budge. It was him they were after, anyway. I was wanted for siding with him, yes, but if the Shah's men had to make a choice of who to follow, they would choose Erik. We agreed that it was best for me to come here, inform you of his situation, and that he would try to lose them somewhere farther North. Perhaps they have already given up their doomed quest. That morning he drew me a map of where I could find you, and I left."

Christine was still silent. She just needed time to process this. Erik had been running, all alone, for years. She had promised she never would again, but she pitied him. Cursed to live a life a restlessness when there was a family that loved him. That was waiting for him and wanted him back. She stood and went to leave for her room to do the only thing she could. Pray.

"There are books in the parlor, and wood near to the fireplace, should you wish to stay up." Ever the dutiful host.

"Christine." Nadir called from his seat. She turned.

"Before we parted, he made me swear to tell you one thing. That he will not delay."

She relaxed a bit. Soon. It meant very soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello, readers. I'd like to thank you for reading this story! Translated to English, the title means "After rain comes good weather." Analyze it as you wish, haha. I hope you enjoy it!**

 **P.S. Just for fun, I've placed some lyrics/references of musicals throughout the text. This chapter has one too!**

 **Erik**

 **Southwestern Russia**

 **March 1887**

That memory to Erik, abandoning his family the dark of night did not seem years ago, it was years ago. He was nearing the outskirts of Moscow now. He knew he had lost the Shah's men in his roundabout journey home, most likely somewhere in the Caucasus. Still, he would not take any chances. He talked to few, mostly traveled at night, and slept in his tent. A tall man with a mask was likely to garner plenty of suspicion, a sight locals would remember. Having slept in various positions nowhere near the realm of comfort, he did not expect to miss the warm softness of the mattress, her curled beside him, but he did. Now, he longed for that peace, but he would do with the assurance of their safety alone. He had had an 'and', but now he was back to 'or'. It made the 'or' mean more than it did before.

The sun was nearly rising over the wild flora. Stretching far above Oberon's saddle, the wild barley plant obscured both his and his mounts' legs, creating the illusion of floating. Golden grasses contrasted against his black -although fading-tailcoat, their tips lightly brushing against calloused hands. Oberon sneezed. The morning dew would cool the tired horse. In these brief moments of beauty, his mind would wander back to her. He wanted to bring her here, show her the glorious sights before him and feel her against his chest. The experience felt false, in some abstract manner, without Christine.

It was then that a thought struck his very core, ricocheting its course through the tips of his skeleton-like appendages. What if she was not there, waiting for him? He could hardly blame her. After all, it had been almost a decade, and he had been hardly a father. Upon parting with Nadir, nearly a year prior, he had told the Daroga to tell Christine that he was still alive. Surely he had found her by now, lest she moved. She loved the sea, though. Had she remarried? He had told her to move on with her life should he not come home, and Christine had never received word of him since his departure. If she had married another, was sending Nadir only stirring up what was best left alone? Last he had heard, De Chagny was sailing to the ends of the earth. Erik narrowed his eyes. Good. But the fop surely could have returned in time. The thought stung. He wanted her happiness though. Erik hated the thought of her spending the remaining days of her youth waiting. But he also hated the possibility of another man, especially the boy, enjoying the priceless moments he had spent with Christine, raising his son. Yet still he knew he did not deserve them.

Regardless, Alexandre deserved a father, didn't he? He would not deny his son what had been denied to his younger self. Giovanni was an irreplaceable figure in his life, despite what had occured on the rooftop with Luciana. He briefly entertained the idea of the scenario had he not studied the trade of masonry under the Italian. Definitely, he would not be in such a mess. Perhaps he was going insane, with just Oberon for company, but he was used to it, wasn't he? He chuckled at the memory of Nadir, much younger, the grey yet to lay claim over his black hair, genuinely nervous at their first meeting.

Years ago, the Shah had heard talk of the young Erik's superior skills designing various commissions in Rome, under a certain Giovanni. He had also heard of Erik's mysterious visage. The then young ruler enjoyed such spectacle, and so, he sent his Daroga to retrieve a new architect, with ample monetary reward.

The Shah was lucky in that his prize was looking for an excuse to leave Italy's capital. Evidently, Giovanni had thrown him out, reasons for which the daroga was unaware, if not suspicious. Drawing upon the keen detective work Mazandaran required in his tenure there, Nadir eventually found what, or rather _whom_ he was searching for. Sleeping in the hayloft of a barn on the outskirts of the ancient city, the said subject immediately awoke as he heard footsteps approaching. This was certainly not a place that a prized architect should live. This man must be strange indeed.

"Bonjour" The daroga muttered in accented French. Erik merely looked at him, coiled tight as if awaiting attack.

He did not respond. Now, the daroga had only a few languages up his sleeve. If this Erik was French, as he was informed, he could most likely carry on conversation, hopefully convincing the masked man to come along. This task seemed more and more unlikely, however, as the yellow eyes turned from a neutral inspection to a harsh glare.

He was not to return empty handed.

"Monsieur", he began, swallowing his nervousness. "The Shah of Persia has heard of your great projects in Rome. He would like you to build him a palace."

And Nadir had thought the glare was harsh before. Underneath his eyes lay a curiosity, however.

"I do not wish for games, Monsieur." It was a low warning. Nadir pressed on.

"Monsieur Erik-" He ventured to call him by name. Erik's surprise grew into displeasure.

"-His Majesty has taken quite an interest in your work. Of course, you would be sufficiently compensated."

"Of course."

The young Frenchman sat, more relaxed than before, up above in the hayloft, looking down upon Nadir. The Daroga was reminded of the Shah thinking over one of his grand parties, he thought humorously.

The tension sat in the musty old barn. Nadir waited for the man to break it.

"Very well. I am looking for a change of scenery."

Three months later Erik started laying plans for the palace he would never complete.

He had been in a constant state of motion for almost three years. Once he had fled Persia, only a year following his arrival, his sole task had been wandering through various parts of Western Asia, hoping to lose the pack of men after his hide. Going so far as the Punjab region of India, he even learned of the true namesake of his most trusted weapon.

Although tiresome and draining, the incessant travel was not without its spectacle. Erik would regularly look upon sights foreign to most men, taking in the everything from the rolling red sands of Rubʿ al Khali, to the ancient cerulean waters of Grecian deities. He even collected a few things for his wife and son, despite not being able to carry much with him. Sighting a stream up ahead, he decided it was time to water Oberon. The horse had done well that night, covering nearly fifty miles. Sliding off his back, he took note of Oberon's torn noseband. He must fashion something to replace it soon. The effects of travel were wearing upon his own state as well; the ragged clothing was truly contemptible. Eyeing the saddle bag, Erik took out the photograph yet again. This was why they were riding so fast. To return to them. He had to see Alexandre. By God, the child was eight by now! Would the boy even remember him? And Christine, even if she wanted nothing to do with him, he needed to see her one last time. Nevertheless, Erik knew it was not wise to push the horse so far. He would do better to take care of his mount.

But he was stupid for another reason as well. He had taken the precious photograph before he left, loving Christine all the more that she had forced them to get the daguerreotype done for such an occasion as their wedding. He had never known such an image could hold such power over his being. This small portrait became his single comfort upon arriving in Persia. Preferring to fold the side of the photograph that displayed his hideous form backwards, admiring his wife's pure features, it served as a humble refuge during bitter cold desert nights, hoveled in his tent as the fire outside cracked and heated. The light would poke through his cow-skin tent, poorly illuminating the face of the woman he loved. It was these moments in which he thanked God for his unusually sharp eyesight.

Day to day work proved to be just as difficult as it was some fifteen odd years ago, though Erik never showed it. Especially with the sweltering Persian summers, the men marveled at, and yet were frightened by, his inhuman composure. The only concession from his apparent state of inhumanity were his rolled up sleeves at the elbow- and maybe an occasional wipe of the left brow. Other than that, no signs of weakness were displayed. Erik presumed the character of his foreboding reputation, with a buttoned up shirt and waistcoat-at the very least, if not, a tailcoat- neatly tied cravat, and black trousers, fitting of a french gentleman. The uniform was merely another mask to wear, another role to befit. This additional mask aided in the protection of his family and himself. To have no loved ones is to have no weakness, no one's death to be threatened with. Nadir had almost died because of him, and he would carry himself properly. They must never know, not even the daroga, lest his wife and son be threatened. He would assume nothing less from the Shah.

Keeping order at the site, the Shah's architect garnered strict obedience among the staff, as well as executing their ruler's various whims and fantastical delusions as to what practical-or even possible, design meant. Erik was no longer the Shah's dog, however. He had agreed to serve as the Master Architect, nothing more.

It would turn out that his selfish need to see her had put them all in danger, and how he hated himself for it. With one hand on the reins, and the other pressed to his chest, where his wedding ring once hung around his neck, he cursed himself yet again.

It had been about a year since he had begun the project. He remembered it because it was Christine's birthday. She would be 23, he mused.

"Erik." The Shah had summoned him to the throne room. The North facing side had been delayed.

Erik had never bothered with assanine pleasantries, nor royal monikers. It was something the fop would do. He merely glanced back at his superior, head cocked to one side in question.

"Yes?" He said only with a slight hint of sarcasm.

The Shah brushed his magician's facetious unpleasantness aside. "I should like to know why there is delay on the North Entrance."

He was irritated now. "Your Eminence," exaggerating the last syllable, "you have demanded marble facing. Your men so foolishly allowed it to be stolen during its journey from America."

The shah returned the angered expression. "And so they shall be punished. It is your project, I wish for you to carry out the sentence."

Erik's expression was stock-still. Readjusting golden cufflinks he met the Shah's gaze. "I am tired of such pursuits. I have come here to build, nothing more."

There was a brief moment of silence. The Shah was surprised. He had expected a more positive response, this was a reward to his architect for his good work. What had changed in his former bloodthirsty assassin?

Something was different in the Angel of Doom, the Shah noticed as he eyed him up and down. "Very well. You may go." And with that Erik turned on a polished heel and left.

That stupid, pathetic child! Erik could already name several halts to the project. He could understand why previous architects gave up implementing his design, which was so difficult because of the Shah's numerous requests. As workmen were comprised of Jews, Muslims, and Christians, he was short of men three days a week, each group honoring their respective sabbath. Due to incompetent staff and petty bureaucracy, he was compelled to oversee nearly everything personally. Several men were injured, as the Shah wanted solid marble ceilings, a painstaking challenge indeed. Some men even died. It was as if the site was cursed. All of these reasons made it longer to return to them. He grew more irritable every day.

It was that night, crouched in his tent following another day of expected errors. He was short three men. One had severed his fingers off whilst sawing lumber, two more had died as a faulty column the previous firm had failed to secure collapsed. This would lengthen the project even more. Both the men and Erik were discontented.

Erik took comfort in his nightly ritual. It gave him something to look forward to, a goal he was working towards. It gave purpose to the meaningless tasks he faced. He afforded this one transgression that compromised the secrecy of his family daily, there in his tent. With the pull of the small photograph from his coat pocket, he disproved his once held conviction that he was not a sentimental man.

Christine stood proudly, a light smile reaching out of the black and white display. Her dress hung elegantly, they had argued over its pricing; Christine had complained of its expense, while Erik insisted it was necessary for his perfect bride. Now he longed for those little arguments. How he wished to spoil his bride! The fashionable lace fabric dissolved off into various displays of rich pattern, interwoven with crystals and silk at the skirt. Her dark hair contrasted with the light of the dress, creating an illuminating effect. He folded the picture at the edge of her hand, resting on his shoulder as he sat in a simple wooden stool. Even then, he was still almost her height. Despite his wanting to, he refrained from tearing the photograph. She would be very angry indeed.

It was in these moments when he would allow himself to think about Alexandre, surely he was speaking in full sentences now! He seemed a very bright child. When he is to return, would his son remember him? The boy was so very young. Erik knew he was a pathetic excuse for a father, but even that was better than an absent one. He longed to be a part of his life, teach him music and horseback riding like a normal father. And she was doing it all alone. He had left her to raise him all alone. For this he carried with him a profound sense of guilt.

Running his dirt caked fingers over his lovely wife's image, he was dismayed at the growing decay of the photograph. Since he kept the treasured item on his person, (he would not have anyone going through his things and finding it) the picture showed signs of wear. Sweat and rain had faded the daguerreotype, and his constant bad habit of touching it proved to be of no help. He yearned to return to her before she faded completely.

Suddenly, Erik registered what sounded like a quarrel growing near the fire. Sighing, he hastily pocketed the image in his jacket, exiting the tent deftly.

The two men, Omar and Kassim, were actually some of Erik's best workers at the site. However, low morale and constant setbacks bred discontentment among the men, as it would with any group. Currently, those nearby were crawling out of their tents to gather towards the commotion. A welcome distraction indeed.

Erik let out a roaring demand. He never shouted with the men, preferring to garner respect- and fear, through controlled instruction.

"Cease, at once!"

This caused the two men in the middle to falter, confusion and fear spreading across their faces. The rest of the group merely gaped at their leader. Despite this, the smaller one of the two, Kassim, stumbled back to his target, fisting his opponents shirt and driving his opposite set of knuckles into his jaw. So, they were drunk, turning to spirits to distract themselves from the palatial disaster. Erik could not blame them.

Still, he would not be shortened another worker, and certainly not two, making his time of return to La Rochelle driven back even farther. Erik pushed past the quickly gathering horde, stepping between the sluggish, grunting men.

They were stronger than he had anticipated, despite being so drunk. But then again, lifting heavy stone and wood did not make one weak. Stunned for a brief second, Erik shoved the larger, much drunker Omar off his feet. Reaching into his coat pocket, he moving the so-feared Punjab Lasso into view. The surrounding men murmured whispers of warning, backing up, adding diameter to the circle so as to keep their necks clean of such a weapon. The rope enclosed the base of Kassim's neck, the men closest could see thick veins pushing outwards against skin.

Erik leaned in. He would have control over his men, like it or not.

"You will stop. Now." It was a growl.

Kassim, slowly realizing the danger of his present situation, swiftly nodded. Erik tightened the rope further. For a brief moment, he wanted to kill the man. Serves him right for being so foolish. But he thought of Christine, and Alexandre; he was a father. Besides, losing a man would mean a longer construction period.

The crowd was frozen in fear and anticipation. Erik released the sorry man, brushing aside the others and briskly walking to his tent. He heard low murmurs. One man mounted his horse and galloped off. He accepted it, hoping tomorrow would lead to a productive day's work.

But it did not. Erik had been summoned to court, yet again. He rolled his eyes in indignation. Tired of enduring endless questionings and demands for add-ons to the blueprints, the visit could only lead to more grunt work for him. Trekking the days journey once more, he arrived before the Shah.

"I thank you, for coming so soon." Had he just thanked Erik? The aging ruler had a loose smile plastered across his features. Erik was annoyed, to say the least. He noticed the Daroga was standing against a wall. What now, he thought.

"Further additions to the blueprints will only lead to further delays. Unrest is growing among the men. It is not wise t-"

The Shah dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "I do not wish to change the blueprints."

Then what did he want? Erik waited.

"Since you have arrived, I have often wondered as to why you were no longer... yourself." It was a slither.

Something was wrong. Erik looked at Nadir. His expression was unreadable.

"But then, shall I say, the strangest thing happened, last night. And I might venture to say that I have completed the puzzle, Erik.

What was he getting at? Confusion rapidly morphed into anxiety.

"You see, my Angel of Doom, I not only need your genius for my palace, but for my contraptions, entertainment, and the enforcement of my laws. Why did you return a different man than before, I wondered. But we can blame that on Mademoiselle Daae, can we not?

Erik froze. Yes, the Shah knew of what had occured at the Garnier, the disaster. But he knew nothing of its outcome.

"You believe a woman could hold sway over a man such as I." He responded cooly, his expression indistinguishable.

"That is where you are wrong, Erik, for I do not believe it. I know it." And with that, the Shah pulled out the fragile portrait of him and Christine, the moment of their joyous wedding day.

"I believe I said 'Mademoiselle' earlier. The correct term for a married Frenchwoman is Madame, is it not?"

He stood, in a state of lifelessness. The fight. In leaving his tent, it must have fallen from his coat pocket. The man that left must have informed the royal court. In all his care to remain secretive, he had failed. He had failed them and himself. Erik hadn't exactly lied to him, now had he? There was no crime in withholding information.

"Yes. What of it?" He finally answered.

The Shah let out a great bellow of a laugh. It did not lighten the room at all.

"And I thought you were an intellectual! Allow me to explain. I need you for my purposes, and this woman-" He said, pointing to the photograph, much to Erik's dislike, "is obviously a distraction."

Erik knew his meaning. Subconsciously, he knew that this would happen all along.

"Seize him."

Within seconds, the room descended into chaos. A small storm of guards charged Erik. Elbowing the one to his right, knocking him several feet backwards, another grabbed his arms from behind. Erik struggled, kneeing the tall man, almost his height, in the groin. Still, it was no use. With many other men, Erik could not hold his own. The Shah watched in fascination as the all-powerful being was finally being conquered.

As several hands strained to withhold him, Erik was approached by what looked like the guard in command. He was ferocious looking and muscular, paying no heed to gentleness as he roughly searched Erik. The man's thick hands ripped through the fabric of its victim's shirt, dismantling the supernatural facade of the Great Angel of Doom with one pull. Erik's yellow eyes snarled at him, if such a thing were possible. The man found what he was looking for.

Tearing it from his neck, the guard casually viewed the simple golden ring, pocketing it in his greed. This was a criminal, after all. He had lied to the Shah himself, denied and disrespected their great leader. In his triumph over the once feared magician, the champion peeled off his opponent's mask.

He truly was hideous. The guard believed the term 'demon' more fitting than 'angel'. The shouting and motion died down, a reaction to the sight before them. Even the Shah stared in disbelief. How could the beautiful woman in the photograph marry that _monster?_ The nose, collapsed in structure, looked worn down to the very bone. Attached to it were emaciated cheekbones, tendons and joints poking out. Discoloration was abundant, resembling the face of a man beaten to death more so than one breathing before them. The forehead displayed an asymmetrical crater, skipping over the faint eyebrow and continuing onto a gaunt eye socket.

Erik let out a string of curses, damning the guard to hell, cursing the very ground they stood upon, vowing to murder the man himself. Everyone in the room, then proud, stood disgusted and petrified. The monster had awoken, and control was out of the question. In all his life, Erik had never felt such all-consuming _anger_. He couldn't think, he could only act.

It was then, seemingly out of no where, that a knife reached around the guard facing Erik, and sliced through the skin, ear to ear. The man stumbled backwards, the perpetrator out of his path, and dropped to the cold marble.

The Daroga had just killed his own countryman. It was the ultimate betrayal.

Wasting no time, Erik sprang into action. With the men restraining him distracted, he twisted from their grasp, plucking one of their swords from their belts and driving it hard into the individual's abdomen. Nadir, grabbing his own sword, ran it through another perplexed guard, falling to his knees in anguish. Now free of restriction, Erik flicked out the dreaded Punjab Lasso, sucking the life out a yet another guard.

It was then that Erik turned to his main intention.

Climbing up sacred steps, covered in finely woven rugs, the Angel of Doom tainted the space, giving a demonic grin to his target. His cursed face only added to the horror. The rope, clutched in his right hand, hung loosely as it prepared to do its work.

Erik approached the ruler, yanking the photograph back. The Shah let out a series of pitiable pleas as the cord began to tighten. Erik's laugh was delirious. All that he was led to become because of this man finally being put to an end. Every life Nadir had taken because of this coward's orders, put to rest. Nadir merely watched in shock. Despite his hatred for the tyrannical theocratic, he did not expect it to come to this. With a simple _snap,_ the Shah of the Persian Empire slumped into his throne.

Before more guards could enter the throne room, the pair left; soaked in blood with no where to go but far away.


	7. Chapter 7

**May 1887**

Months passed following Nadir Khan's arrival. Christine offered, or rather, _begged_ him to stay in the house. The man was her only link to her husband, although limited. Besides, Khan had given up everything for Erik. It was the least she could do. Regardless, he had nowhere to go, frankly, and although fairly proficient at the language, it would be difficult for an immigrant such as himself to find permanent residences that were comfortable. He would need to be keeping a low profile, anyway. Political assassinations of world leaders were not taken lightly. Although most westerners did not concern themselves with such 'trivial' affairs, he would not chance a possible recognition. He had, after all, assisted a wanted criminal in the murder of the ruler he had sworn to protect. The iota of honor he had left would be best used _alive_. It could lead to his capture- or worse.

In France, Persian affairs were viewed as far away and irrelevant, so most newspapers and periodicals did not write of it. This lack of access to information worried worried him. He prayed for his friend's return.

It was the former Shah's friends that worried him, the ones that were chasing after Erik, seeking retribution for their leader's murder. The political situation in Persia had become intense. The Shah was bound to get overthrown, though the question was by _whom_. Enemies among the court were everywhere, even among his top advisers. Although he had yet to hear news, Nadir believed the Shah's chief financial aide assumed power. The new royal most likely glad that Erik completed the task he was planning on executing all along.

Christine felt stupid, a feeling which had not plagued her in a long time. Even avoiding Paris, she could have kept an ear on the goings of international politics. Surely Raoul, although not having contacted him since her marriage, would have diplomats in his social circle. But than again, maybe it was better not to have known. If she had been made aware of the Shah's assassination by a certain masked man, what would she have done? Uprooted the children and taken them halfway across the globe, endangering both them and herself? How would she even know where he was? Nadir had remarked he was somewhere in Russia! She felt utterly and completely inadequate in helping her husband, and in truth, she was. It was something he must do himself to come back to her. She struggled to hope he would.

In spite of her saddened state, Christine was grateful for the man's presence, giving genuine kindness to the children, and welcome company to herself. Muslim morals concerning the value of hard work instilled in him, Nadir insisted upon helping Christine with the upkeep of the farm. He would not take free meals and a room were he not offering something else in return, despite Christine's continued assurances that it was unnecessary. Over the few months he lived with them, he learned to enjoy the quiet labors of country life, and the rewarding presence of another person, after being alone for so many years. Nadir has grown comfortable there over the months, learning to cherish his friend's wife and children. Alexandre, reminding him so much of Reza, came up to him one morning, following breakfast, his expression halted with nervousness.

"Uncle Nadir?" 'Uncle' became an ordinary occurrence, the endearment flowing out of Alexandre's lips one day. Christine had smiled, and Josephine has echoed the sentiment. He didn't mind it, rather, he believed that it sounded so much better than "monsieur". He wondered how Erik would react.

Alexandre was sheepish. Unusual for his boyish playfulness. What was going on?

"Yes, my dear boy?" He was hoping to assuage any hesitations the boy had. It was obviously something weighing upon his mind.

"I was wondering… if you could-"

Brow furrowed, his interest was piqued. "If I could.."

It came out in a quick mumble. Although he was fluent in the language, it was difficult to understand.

"teachmehowtoride."

Once registered, the look of seriousness on Nadir's featured developed into one of relaxed humor. His laugh was shortened, however, by the boy's reaction, obviously mortified by his own.

"But of course! I'd be happy to! After all, we cannot have the incident when I first arrived here occur once again, can we?" Nadir placed a firm hand upon the boy's shoulder

Alexandre smiled, bashfully, yet hopeful.

The following day Nadir took the young Alexandre outside, showing him the various steps to tack up the horse. Traveler had not been saddled in a very long time, so he thought it best to use his own mount. She was extremely talkative, neighing in glee at the exercise. Giving the boy a leg up, he was firmly seated in the saddle when Nadir noticed the impish grin that had supplanted itself upon his face.

"What is her name, Uncle?" Alexandre mentioned as he patted the horse, walking it around pasture.

Nadir smiled, turning his head in surprise, stroking his beard in thought. "Well, I suppose she doesn't have one. I acquired the mare rather hastily, and such a detail was not told to me."

Alexandre's flashy smirk looked like he was hoping for something.

The former Daroga chuckled. "Very well, my boy. What would you like to name her?"

"Rhapsody. She is very loud. Is she not?"

"Yes, Yes she is." His words were flooded with mirth.

The two adults would often sit after the evening meal on the front porch, though it depended upon the weather. Tonight was a cooler night, for late June, and the evening breeze washed in from the sea. Christine had developed a loving friendship with the man, however unexpected it may have been. She was fascinated with his time as Police Chief, telling her stories of his various assignments and duties. Sometimes they would just sit, enjoying the air. It was beginning to turn into one of those instances when Christine broke the comfortable silence with a directness that was uncommon, despite knowing him for a while.

She turned her body, taking a deep breath, so as to warn of the seriousness of the topic which she was about to address.

"Why did you remain loyal to Erik? You lost everything."

It was blunt; it was true. Nadir inhaled deeply, heels sinking into the floor panels. How was he to put this? Half of his life, him and Erik had been inextricably linked. Some would call it divine intervention, others, a curse. After several long, stilled moments, he responded.

"I suppose we have survived as long as we have because we are loyal to each other, although Erik would be loathe to admit it." He said, chuckling quietly.

She wanted more, he could tell.

"He risked his own life to save mine in coming back. It was I who brought him there all those years ago, it was I who started it all."

"You were following orders."

"A mere excuse. My actions are my own. I carry their weight with me always."

Christine admired the older man's candor, as well as his sense of honor. Surely he must have been an imposing influence on her husband as a young man. Still, she would understand the reasoning for his actions. Khan had given up everything: his home, his position, all that he knew. The question was not whether she was glad of it, but rather, _why?_

"Why disobey now? What brought this on?"

"Things were getting worse. With all the construction setbacks, political tension, financial strain, I knew. I knew when the Shah pulled that photograph out, when it was discovered that Erik had lied to him, well-" He wasn't sure of how to continue.

"Please." She said meekly, as if a beggar was asking for a scrap of bread.

"They would have sought you out. And after he was done with the palace, they would have killed him."

She sat there, shocked. _Sought you out._ Did that mean what she thought? She knew this could have happened, right? The danger of his journey was apparent, but she had never expected this. Why, oh God why, did he take that photograph? Somewhere buried deep she knew that answer, after months of thought. Who could ever know what pain a small portrait, a trinket really, would cause.

"But still, you could have let him die" Her voice was gravelly, eyes dark. "It would have saved you years of anguish."

Nadir shook his head, dismissing the very idea with the wave of the hand.

"Surely, Christine, you know of the things your husband has done for me?"

The woman looked at him in surprise, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity. Erik had never told her.

Nadir began, unlocking the part of his memory that remained hidden and sheltered. It was too painful.

"I had a wife and son." Unshed moisture made his eyes shine. "My wife, may she rest in peace, had died in childbirth. My son, Reza, then about seven, became very ill.

Christine could only imagine. If Alexandre- no, God forbid it. She didn't want to think of it.

"Erik nursed him. Day in and day out. He possessed knowledge which amazed me in the art of healing. He mentioned it briefly that he learned it when he was among the gypsies. Do you know of this?"

She knew, albeit vaguely.

"He rarely spoke of it, but yes."

"To this day, I do not know why he did it. Perhaps my son reminded Erik of himself."

"Perhaps you may ask him." It was a test, a plea. But it was also a hidden question. _Will he come back?_ Eyes flickered to him, her heartbeat accelerating, thudding like a drum in her chest.

"Perhaps." _I am sorry._ It was all he could offer her.

Tactfully changing the directions on the conversation, Christine spoke. "He is a kind man, though most do not see."

Nadir was noticeably thankful. "I am convinced his concern, no- his love for Reza kept him alive for much longer than was destined. I was granted more time with my child. For this I will always be indebted to Erik."

They sat for a long moment, unsure of what to say next. It turned into a relaxed silence, though. At last, the older man began to speak.

"And now, Madame, I feel as though it is time to ask you for something."

"Anything, Monsieur." She could feel the tone shift. It was entirely uncertain.

"Your forgiveness." His voice was grave, eyes direct and mouth pursed.

"Nadir, I do not understand." It was quite honest.

"In being the dutiful daroga, I nearly led your husband to his death."

Christine did not know what to think. This man probably the only living friend of Erik's, claiming his failure by him. And now he was asking her forgiveness? It seemed inappropriate. Out of place. _Not right_. How could she blame him for calling him back to Persia, under deadly threat? In her eyes, all this man had done was his duty, and had acted upon his conscience when the time was proper.

Forgiveness was not needed. He had done nothing to warrant this guilt he carried towards her. Wrapping the hand nearest to her in both of her own, her eyes communicated sheer compassion.

"Monsieur, you are wrong. For you have saved him. I _thank_ you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you all again for reading, as well as the reviews/favorites! I hope everyone enjoys the story! I plan to finish it sometime in the next few weeks, aiming it to be somewhere in the ballpark of 30k-40k words. I do not want to overwrite this, and that amount of words seems appropriate for the tale I want to tell.**

 **Anyways, Onward!**

 **July 1887**

The night was one of merriment and shared company. Earlier that day, Nadir had worked with Alexandre in the paddock with the newly named 'Rhapsody'. The boy had grown significantly better in that span of just two months, and Christine carried with her a strong sense of pride at her son's progress. She knew Nadir enjoyed the sessions as well, finding joy in her son's presence. She was glad of it.

Following supper, as was custom on Sunday evenings, the small band contented themselves with a few pieces of entertainment. Alexandre had dragged the group outside, before it got dark, to show them his 'tricks'. The dogs followed, most likely to the barn to chase a rabbit of some kind.

"Maman, I have been practicing!"

Christine quirked her eye in question, glimmering interest. "And what would that be?"

"Watch!" Leading Rhapsody from the paddock, without halter or reins, the horse followed by some type of whistle call. Christine shook her head, looking to Nadir and smiling. So he wasn't just teaching her son how to ride.

Placing a foot upon the fence, leaning upon the bay mare, Alexandre situated himself on the horse, grinning all the while. She was only fourteen hands, much more manageable to mount than Traveler's sixteen.

" _Maman_ , watch!" It was then that Christine's curiosity turned to concern. Despite her apparent state of worry, out of her peripheral vision she could see that Nadir had a casual countenance. With a wobbly leg, and then another, he raised himself on the mare's back, stretching his skinny figure in victory.

"Alexandre, be careful!" She couldn't help it.

He ignored her warning. Two clicks of the tongue signaled the pony to demurely step forward, walking in a straight arrow. His arms were spread wide, so as to keep his balance. Tapping the horse's right side with his boot toe, the horse turned that direction, craning its neck towards them. Christine had seen something similar in The Opera Garnier's month-long run of _Carmen_ , trained Arabians performing techniques unknown to Europeans. She had believed Erik had had something to do with it. And Nadir had taught Alexandre. The origins of the gimmick that drew large crowds to the Garnier made sense. Erik had picked it up from the Persian.

Christine gasped as her son practically leaped from the animal, landing resolutely, adding in a bow for good measure.

Cradling his face, Christine began "Oh, that was wonderful! But you must promise me, Alexandre, to do this only when Uncle Nadir is present."

He could only nod excitedly.

Josephine chimed in, obviously a little miffed at her brother's mpressive show, and the bountiful attention it garnered.

" _Maman_ , may I play for you?"

Christine smiled warmly, understanding her daughter's feelings. "Yes, _ma cher_."

The four headed back to the house, Christine opening the front windows to let the air in. Josephine, who was beginning to learn piano, had performed a short song, which Alexandre had been teaching her. Despite the well intentions of its beginnings, the teacher-student pairing did not end as Christine had hoped. At some point, she was forced to take over as educator, as the eldest brother was not proving to be a very patient tutor, and Josephine not so much the willing pupil.

The small girl had plucked a wrong note, altering the tune of the simple song flat. Her little hands simply could not stretch that far.

"Josie, it's easy! Why are you being so dimwitted?"

Christine whipped her head around at that. Alexandre often grew impatient with his younger sister, a feeling to which Josephine did not respond to in kind. Before their mother knew it, Josephine hit him, a resounding _smack_ echoing in the parlor.

Needless to say, they had both gone to their rooms without supper that night.

That Sunday was much more positive.

Readying herself as her audience awaited her performance, Christine warmed up her voice, preparing it for an Aria from _Les Contes d'Hoffmann_. It was a comic piece, in which she played Olympia, a doll masquerading as a human. Alexandre had been all too happy to aid her in practicing, and although he struggled a bit, straining his fingers across the wide range the song covered, as well as the fast plucking of notes, her heart soared with pride watching her son mimic the place of his father. She chose it not only for the lighthearted nature and entertainment value, which she knew the children would enjoy, but its level of difficulty. The piece was extremely laborious to master, as it took much concentration to maintain breath support during the nearly endless coloratura runs. Christine, considering herself more of a classical soprano, had studied it for several days before even attempting to sing, marking the sheet music for breath points and where she would place vibrato. Her range had improved significantly over the years, and although the song contained a high G#, meant to be sustained for several seconds, she was confident in her ability, and most willing to face the task.

She had never attempted a piece this ambitious since her days at the Opera, and she counted on her experience to allow her to sing it. Over the years, she had taken time nearly every day to at least go through vocal exercises: and it showed. With the training, and her vocal maturity, her voice had blossomed into something even better than her days as Prima Donna. She was still very young then, and even with the continuous training and natural tone, her voice had yet to develop fully. Now, she prayed Erik would be able to hear it soon. She sometimes would muse about returning to the Garnier, perhaps another theater, if they would have her. But there was little time for that now. This marked her steady dedication to her voice.

Before Christine began, she questioned her daughter, clearing her throat. "Josephine?"

They had prepared for a brief featuring of Josephine, and the little girl was more than pleased. She took it most seriously. Running over to her mother, she pantomimed a crank behind her back, so as to 'wind' the doll up. Christine nodded in thanks, assuming the character and completing the piece with nothing less than it deserved.

Whenever Christine's angelic instrument was heard by Nadir, he felt transported. So this was why Erik fell in love with her, at the Opera. It was certainly understandable. Besides, she was the Prima Donna at arguably the grandest Opera House in Europe, she would be breathtaking! Her triumphant voice, meant for the stage, contrasted with the intimate setting, made Nadir feel as if he was granted some special privilege, a private eye into what was meant for the elite of Paris.

Nadir had finished with a folk story, _Arash the Archer_ , which he remembered thoroughly enjoying during the years of his boyhood, despite it seeming so long ago. The children wholeheartedly showed their fascination, their slight forms leaning forward with great interest. Nadir told tales much like Erik - perhaps it is where he acquired the skill, for it was absolutely spellbinding. Christine swore that man could make sweeping the floor seem fascinating.

With a tired yawn from her youngest, Christine put the children to bed, following their example to her own. She was satisfied with her performance tonight, and idly wondered what her maestro would think.

* * *

Dusk had made its presence known as the sun rose over La Rochelle. Purple-hued clouds crossed briefly over the languidly illuminating sky, signaling the beginning of a new day. The waves, at low tide, crept up on the shore like a thief, chasing the land. Their sounds could be heard if one turned their ear and listened intently.

This was Josephine's favorite time of day. Although her maman would scold her, (she was only caught twice) the girl often enjoyed creeping from her bed, nightgown still on, and sitting on the front porch, watching the sun come up. She would sometimes pick grass or pat Macbeth, if he were out. She liked the quiet. Alexandre liked to sleep.

Pulling the soft quilt her mother had fitted for her bed, the little girl snuck downstairs, past Uncle Nadir's bedroom. He typically rose with the sun, so she would have to be extra careful.

She liked this time of day for another reason as well. It wasn't as hot. Especially in summer, France's west coast would get as warm as hardly anyone there could stand, and complemented with the smell of fish from the port city, it was not a welcome combination. Fortunately, the salty air proved a worth foe in combating such odors, the wind from the sea aiding the intense heat as well.

The young girl sucked in a gasp of breath when the floorboards beneath her creaked, as if shaking their heads at her endeavor. Her mother would want her to get back to sleep, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't. Sleeping was so _boring_! At least sitting outside was _doing_ something.

Having successfully completed the task of trekking down the seemingly never ending stairs, Josephine clutched her stuffed pony to her chest. Nadir had given to her as a Christmas present, although she didn't think he celebrated the holiday. It was nice of him. She carried the small spotted pony nearly everywhere she went, despite her brother's teasing. Alexandre was eight, and he enjoyed telling her so. The door, although letting out a soft creak, allowed her passage to the outside. Today would be busy, indeed. The various going-abouts of the farmhouse meant that everyone had to pitch in, no matter how small. And this year, she was old enough to help her mother with more chores. She would be six in the fall.

On occasion she would think about her father. Especially after Monsieur Nadir started living with them, she began to realize the scope of his absence. He would tell them brief stories about her father, ones of battling kings and performing magic tricks. She loved those stories, but it only made the man in her head turn into more of a figure, mythical and untouchable. Although she had never known him, she would think about the mysterious man that she had never met, wondering what it would be like if she truly had a father. It was never with much emotion, though, more like a vague curiosity. Despite this, however, she earnestly wanted him to come. Alexandre seemed excited after Nadir came. She wondered how everything would change. Regardless, if her father were to ever to return, certainly her mother would be happy.

Lost in this train of thought, Josephine decided that she would merely sit upon the porch steps, giving sway to the many unexplored ideas awaiting to be conceived of. She was much like her mother was at her age, wandering in daydreams and possibilities. Josephine, for lack of a better term, was _curious_.

The porch steps were still awaiting their repainting. Something had always come up in Christine's endless tasks to complete that the time simply could not be afforded. Josephine liked them, in a way. The wear and tear signified life. The constant ebb and flow of various individuals entering and exiting the farmhouse left its mark upon the steps, and somehow the permanence of these experiences was reflected in the old wood. Her father had helped chip away the paint. There was something in that, right? Rickety steps groaning in acknowledgement to the burden of her light form, she sat down.

It was misty that day, the morning dew seemingly rising out of its nightly captor, the grass. Hopefully it would be cooler today. Last night maman had sung one of her songs. Josephine loved it when her mother sang. It was as if someone were wrapping you in a warm embrace, comforting and familiar. The young girl hoped to sound like her mother one day, strong yet light, powerful yet gentle. Although Christine had taught her simple technique, she longed to learn more. Alexandre hogged the piano anyway, why shouldn't she sing?

Her mind drawing back to her surroundings, the young girl eyed the grass. What would it be like to run barefoot in the damp ground? Horses did it. Taking note of her small toy in her lap, she decided that the two were not so different, after all. Quickly collecting herself, although not so quickly as to forget her small pony, she scampered across the field, laughing in her adventurousness. Its soft hoof gripped firmly in her palm, the pony was violently whipped to and fro as the pair traveled across the knoll. Her nightgown flowed wildly around her, its white color browning towards the bottom. Maman would not be happy. Still, she ran, out farther and farther, until she would not have been able to see even the outline of the house, all the while uttering vocalizations of glee.

As the ground proved to be slick in its dampness, she made sure to watch her steps, keeping her eyes focused towards the ground. This position, however, limited her view of what was in front of her, which the morning fog did not help. Gallivanting along the French countryside, in lieu of its liberating perks, was not a permanent venture for a young girl.

A large figure, as if out of nowhere, appeared in stark definition to the misty cloud which hugged the ground. In shock of its apparent suddenness, a misplaced foot led to an abrupt tumble to that very ground. Her white nightdress would soon be indistinguishable. Roughly throwing her hands out, so as to catch her falling weight, she let out a cry of surprise. Mud splattered tiny droplets over her pale face, a few drops catching in her raven hair. She must have looked a mess. Adjusting to her present state, she seemed to be fine. Not being the most graceful child, she was used to such falls. Breathing heavily, as if just now becoming aware of her body's need for the air, she glanced forwards.

The large figure appeared to be a horse. White stockings, caked in mud, like her, made up the lower portion of the animal's legs. Upon further inspection, though, looked like another pair of legs, most definitely _not_ belonging to a horse. A black pant hemline, ratty and torn, encircled again, black, boots, their dirt stains matching that of their mount. This inspection did not satisfy her, and so she looked upwards.

The man's legs seemed to reach upwards forever to a child of her stature, who at the moment was placed in an even lower position than normal. The two legs turned into a tucked waistcoat, a jacket hanging loosely from the figure. At some point, the man must have picked up her toy horse, a silly comparison to the real giant before her. It was dwarfed by the man's large hands.

Gazing at her prized possession, though still wary of the figure before her, she hastily rose, automatically backing away a few steps. This allowed her to fully take in who she had nearly run into, and most importantly, who had her horse.

The man's form stretched on, she had to crane her head to get a proper look. He seemed normal enough, Maman had always been warning her of hooligans and highwaymen in the country. The first thing she noticed were his eyes. They practically glowed. Held in an unknown fashion, they were slightly squinted as he looked upon her. Strange. She had never met someone with the same color eyes as her. Even Alexandre's were more brown than golden.

The second thing she noticed was the individual's mask. It contrasted sharply against his tanned skin, weathered from years of travel. Black hair was pushed back, the sides twinged with grey, forming slight waves upon the nape of the neck. Though the majority of the man's face was covered from view, expression was evident, of what she was not sure. After a few exasperated moments, the man proved to have a voice.

"Mademoiselle, I must inquire as to the state of your health." His voice seemed strained.

Health? She wasn't ill. One winter a doctor had come, she had contracted smallpox, and he had asked the same question. But this was nothing like that, surely. Taking a few moments to register exactly who the man was, she finally realized. He certainly was no doctor. She briefly remembered the conversation her mother had had with her and Alexandre, about their father. It was something about a mask. The presence of such an object wasn't mentioned again, so she had almost forgotten. The man still didn't fit the gallant gentlemen type- attire being covered in patches, his hair was much too long to be proper, and patchy stubble poked through the visible side of his face. But now, other descriptions aided her. Her mother had mentioned his height, and his dark hair. It must be her papa, arriving home at last! Oh, maman would be full of joy today, singing with delight!

Disregarding his question completely, though assuring her lack of injury through her demeanor, she smiled brightly, latching onto his free hand with mirth.

"You must be my Papa, I am sure of it!"

The man looked at the entwined hands, then upon the child. His stance indicated a state of paralysis. As if not knowing what to do next, he handed the girl her muddied toy back, gingerly.

Seeing her original goal, her smiled turned upwards even more. Hugging the stuffed toy tightly to her chest, she watched in fascination as the man crouched down.


	9. Chapter 9

**Erik**

 **July 1887**

Erik had been trudging the Eurasian landscape for nearly four years. Battered and dilapidated, the outer appearance of a gentlemen had, little by little, been stripped away. He looked absolutely horrible. Well, worse than was normal. Once he had reached France, after finally losing the pack of men searching for him in somewhere in the Russian wilderness, he rode. Hard.

Keeping to the coastline and riding North, he had avoided Paris, not willing to risk his sorry hide after the many years of evading capture. By his own estimation, he would reach La Rochelle soon. Very soon, indeed. Oberon was almost wheezing, but he couldn't abstain from the chance of seeing them, _today_. This foggy, damp morning constituted the reasoning behind his life's motivation for the past six and a half years. He briefly regretted avoiding Paris, adding even more time to his journey. Would people even remember the mysterious affair of the Phantom? Surely, it was out of _Le Epoque_ by now. It would be nearly a decade since the disaster, since he almost lost Christine. He dismissed the thought. He was right to avoid the temptation, deciding it was not worth the risk. He had risked everything by bringing that picture. He would not repeat such a foolish action.

And what of Christine? His _wife_. Was she still? His heart threatened to break away from his chest cavity, the scant muscle physically feeling weaker. Bony fingers were practically wringing the leather of the leather reins. He was sweating. Had she left? Had Nadir even found her? There was no way of knowing until his arrival. She very well could have remarried, and what would he do then? Or, worse, she could not want him at all. _Until death do us part_. To her, her husband could have died years ago. He had told her a year. And it had been well over six. Why would she have not moved on? It was what he told her to do. He was wrong, wrong to have never explicitly say the words: _goodbye_. Remorse stole over his body, yet again, filling out his veins and tremoring the blood to his core. How would she, _could she_ , forgive him? What if she hated him for it? It was well within her right. Who was he to assume that everything would continue as it had before? Still, he would enter that house like a dog, pitiable and meek, and beg mercy, beg her to take him back.

Alexandre, his dear boy. He must be tall by now, at the age of eight! Would Christine allow his father to see him? After being gone so long, Erik wondered. Why would Christine want the absentee father back in her son's life? Perhaps she had told Alexandre that another man was his father, had she remarried. It certainly would be better for the boy. A fresh start, without a stain such as himself on her darling son. He doubted Alexandre even remembered him. He was so young, and while Erik had lived with them he spent most time either working or composing. Christine had done most of the care towards their child. Were he able, he vowed to maintain an active role in his son's life. So many years had been stolen already.

The morning mist, which clouded over his path, forced him to hinder Oberon's pace to a loping canter. He was nearly there, but he did not allow himself to hope. It would be too devastating. In the midst of forming a plan as to how he would track down Christine were his aspirations slashed, a small form, nearly blending into the silver fog, apart from a black spot near the top, made its way towards him. Oberon nickered in suspicion.

The spot evidently made sounds. It sounded like a small girl, judging from the figure's high pitch vocalizations. Erik lightly tugged on the reins, bringing Oberon to a halt. The child was giggling as if she had just heard to most comical jest ever told. Suddenly, Erik did not remember the last time he had heard laughter. Instead of welcoming the feeling, however, he was unnerved.

The stranger plummeted towards Oberon, the stallion pawing his front hoof in restlessness. What kind of parent had allowed their child to explore about the countryside _, alone_ , risking running into someone like him? And in nightclothes? He grew anxious at yet another hitch in his goal of finding his small family. Dismounting in annoyance, to calm the horse, Erik looked down to see the black-haired child landing just inches from his dirtied boots, yelling out a cry of surprise, the thud splashing droplets of mud randomly. His horse huffed, dismissing the threat in indignation.

She appeared to have been holding a toy of some sort, which Erik spotted somewhere in between Oberon's back hooves. Retrieving the object, and expecting to continue onto his desired destination, something halted his pursuit. The girl, getting up in haste, stared back up at him, face locked in fascination. He certainly was not unfamiliar to gawking children, but something was off. The child's irises were nearly yellow in color, directly matching his. It disturbed him. He had never known of another person with such eyes. The odd feature is what made him something feared, his yellow slits had aided in his inhuman characterization. It was the priest that exorcised him during his childhood that had first pointed it out. He pitied the child, to have the same feature that demonized him all his life. Apart from his face, of course.

What struck him, though, was the longer he looked at her, the more her eyes complimented her features. Although alarming at first, the girl felt somewhat familiar.

Breaking from his thoughts, he remembered his manners. He would ensure the girl's lack of injury and be on his way. Children cannot wonder that far. What was she, four, five? Surely, she was able to locate herself home.

"Mademoiselle, I must inquire as to the state of your health." He said formally. After initial confusion, her face distorted into something the resembled _happiness._ The girl had taken quite a tumble, though she seemed unaware of it. Splotches of sludgy earth covered her nightdress, and she seemed unaware of that too. Strange child.

Before he knew it, she was grabbing his hand, placing it into her own two small ones.

"You must be my Papa, I am sure of it!"

Erik did not understand. Children jest, do they not? They play games. Imaginary games that do not concern themselves within the limits of reality. Papa? Alexandre was beginning to utter the term regularly when he left. He longed to hear it from his son again. But this girl? He would take her to her home, obviously she was incapable of doing that herself.

Remembering he still held the object, he awkwardly returned it to the girl. She embraced it fiercely, corners of her mouth upturned in thanks as she watched him in fascination. Lowering himself to the child's level, to seem less intimidating, he spoke with a steady, even tone.

"Where do you live, child?"

She pointed in the direction she had come from, turning back to face him.

That was where _they_ lived. Good. The girl's home was hopefully on the way. Before he could raise himself up, however, the child practically flung herself on his person, her tiny hands grabbing around his neck. It was suffocating. The toy horse flew out of her grasp yet again.

"Oh, Papa, you've come home!" She paused. "My name is Josephine."

In an attempt to register the child's words, he removed himself from her grasp, pulling her thin wrists off. He looked into her eyes, a serious gesture, deciphering what truth he could find in them. There were two possibilities. Either this girl was mad – running out at dawn with nothing but a nightgown on, and stumbling, at that- or…

How could anyone, even a child, mistake him for someone else? And the girl's eyes. He was close to home, he could sense it. All these evidences pushed him to ask her.

"Child, do you have a brother?"

The tension of the moment was broken. Her eyes lifted.

"His name is Alexandre! You know that."

Alexandre. His dear boy. But surely, the name was common enough.

"And your mother's name?"

"Oh, Papa, this is silly! You know maman's name!" Initially giggling at his seriousness, she picked up on his look of apprehension, waiting for an answer.

"Christine."

Christine. So, she had stayed, had waited. But this did not mean the situation was transparent. Children have a way of simplifying things, social cues and rules. Christine was here, but she could have remarried, it may very well be much more complicated than that. But it didn't matter to him. At that moment, he had to see her. Nothing else was relevant. Well, except-

"Josephine. How old are you?"

"I turn six in November." She said proudly. Innocent. Unknowing. True.

She was five. Five years old. In a sudden wave of realization, Erik understood why this girl seemed familiar. She looked like his _mother._ Madeline had been beautiful, pale regality and a searing gaze, though this girl displayed no malicious countenance. Mentally counting nine months after he left, he froze. It was getting close to march when he received the letter. _Had Christine been pregnant_? Oh, fate had cursed him. All these years, and he didn't know. He looked at this child, _his_ child. Erik was terrified to the bone. His daughter.

Exhaling loudly, he attempted to summon at least a façade of composure. His eyes glistened. She waited, patiently, as if knowing the heavy weight that this meeting carried.

Lightly taking her hand, Erik forced himself to smile. He did not remember the last time he performed the action.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, ma cher." The last phrase resembled more of a gravelly whisper than the polite endearment it was meant to be.

Josephine smiled. With less force than before, she enclosed her arms around his neck, squeezing gently.

"I am happy you're home, Papa."

His arms hung limply at his sides. His daughter, embracing him with childlike excitement alight her features. It never even occurred to him that Christine could bear another child. Alexandre's birth had been quite taxing, and although they had discussed it, they thought it not possible. Now, he bore the evidence of their incorrectness in front of him. And she had gone through her pregnancy alone, he prayed Meg had been there to help her when he had failed to do so. He thanked his wife's Christian God that he spared the mother and child.

Shaking hands lightly brushed said child's back, eventually pulling her small form up with him. Leaning away at the movement, her face carried surprised joy realizing how high up she was, in his arms. His deep, rich laugh resounded, tears now spilling forth freely now.

A hand reached towards his face. He flinched backwards, ever-cautious of curious children. Despite this apparent setback, though, Josephine continued on to her goal, roughly palming the tear away in her urgency. He stared at her.

A wet spot, seeping to his skin through his shirt, forced him to regard its source.

"Where are your shoes?"

Muddied feet had dirtied his already tattered waistcoat. She looked like a culpable convict, wary of answering her accuser. The false strictness of the conversation was revealed, however, by Erik's low chuckle.

"Never mind. You will show me home, yes?"

She could only nod, head moving fiercely up and down. Grabbing her yet again flown about toy, Erik clicked his tongue twice. Oberon responded in kind, walking forward. With her light form secure in his two long arms, they paced forwards in an unexpectant silence, both content with the other not knowing what to say.

The house came into visibility. Erik's head pounded. His stomach felt like it was in his throat. Seemingly out of nowhere, he asked his daughter.

"Why were you outside, in the first place?"

She shrugged. "I like it out here."


	10. Chapter 10

**_Christine_**

Adding more flour to the thickening dough, she rocked calloused palms harshly into the table. Her upper arms strained in response. Although the night prior had ended well, with singing and music and merriment, the day had been most grueling, the summer sun casting garish rays upon the constricting wool of her dress. As a result, the skin of her forearms, face and neck grew olive in tone, her once-dark hair lightening to its former shade of her youth. Certainly, would she to go back to the Opera, they would think her a beggar of some kind. What was the term they used in America? Ah, yes, redneck. Working outside some much had made her that, at least literally.

The weeding of their tomato plant had given her a sunburn the day before, and she rubbed it mercifully, kneading the bread. She considered wearing a hat next time. Heating up the wood-fire stove, she stoked the flames, staring through the yellow and orange ribbons in her automation. Dawn was poking through the pane glass, and the morning meal had yet to be made. She was surprised Nadir was not awake yet.

As if to answer her thought, she registered the shuffling of feet above her. He had been of great help since his arrival, and she truly enjoyed the company he offered. She was grateful for his friendship.

A few moments later, the man in question shuffled down the stairs, light creaks betraying the morning quiet. Offering a smile as he nodded his head in acknowledgement, he helped himself to boil a pot of water for morning coffee.

"I forgot to mention, Alexandre picked up a paper for you in town." It lay sitting on the table. Now that he was old enough, Christine allowed the boy to take trips to town unaccompanied. She knew that soon he would want to go farther than that. The boy was growing up much too swiftly, and she briefly wondered what kind of man he would turn into.

Nadir scanned its cover. "And is he up yet?"

"Of course not."

"On the other hand, I believe your daughter has snuck off again. I awoke to some footsteps outside my door only a short while ago." He chucked, flipping open the thin parchment.

Christine huffed. "That girl. When she comes back..." Perhaps her attempts at parental punishment were not proving to be as much as a deterrent as she hoped. She never particularly remembered being punished by her father, Gustave. Always a fairly well-behaved child, he never had reason to enforce discipline. Well, maybe he did, she just didn't recall, as she had been so young. She tried to understand her daughter. In reality, she was just walking around, how harmful could that really be? But she had to be firm. Last time, she was worried sick, finding her daughter nearly a mile from the house. It was ridiculous to allow a five year old girl to meander around the countryside! And as a parent her word must be followed. It was all very confusing.

Looking down, the bread was becoming, well, perhaps over-kneaded.

They settled into a comfortable silence. Christine began to hum quietly, mind wandering to parenting techniques. Erik would have come up with something. Well, he hadn't exactly had a _positive_ model to take from, she reasoned, placing the bread over the fire. Preparing the table for breakfast, she detected the familiar bouncing steps on the porch. Brutus and Macbeth were barking. Loudly.

"Josephine, what have I told you about sneaking out?"

"But Maman-"

In a feeble attempt to quiet the commotion about her, she yelled. "Brutus, quiet!" He still did not. Usually at least the dogs would obey her.

Christine set a fork down, picking up a plate in its place. She had to raise her voice to communicate over the commotion. "No, Josephine, you mus-"

"Christine." A choked voice emitted from the doorway. It was rough and soft and heavy.

She knew who it belonged to. But she believed her ears to be lying. They certainly could be liars. Sometimes she was sharp when she believed to be singing the right note, and he would always tell her. By no means did she possess perfect pitch, though she could sometimes trick herself into thinking she did, her arrogant former self would conclude. Now, she was realistic. Her eyes looked up from her task, confronting the source of such a quiet, cracked sound.

The plate shattered. The dogs quieted, apparently accomplishing their task of informing her of the newcomer.

Numb, she stared. Were her eyes liars too? Evidently, she had been holding her breath, and a quick release of air pushed itself outwards, uneven, almost like a pant. A hand, still dusted with flour, reached up to her hairline, as if checking to see if her head was on straight. The other gripped the back of the wooden chair, the force of her weight causing the floor to creak like the steps.

Two sets of the same eyes stared back.

Maybe her eyes were liars. She didn't care. She wanted to believe them so badly that she didn't care. The joy of this moment would carry her until her death, she was sure of it. But now, she needed to discern the truth.

She stepped forward simply, afraid of convicting her eyes guilty. A smile formed on her face, involuntarily. So, her body had believed her eyes, had her mind?

She continued to stare into those eyes. The taller ones, now. Closing the distance, she reached out, pressing a hand to the figure's chest, assessing its reality.

Her hand was met with solid form. Christine exhaled again.

"Erik." She said.

Her arms managed to reach up and wrap around his neck, light and overflowing. He had to bend down a little to accommodate her, harms hanging limply at his trouser pockets. He felt wetness against his neck, her pressed against him.

The pressure of her seemed to shock Erik back to life, and his listless appendages suddenly gained a purpose. His embrace slowly encased around her form. In a brief release of tension, a welcome feeling following seven years of torment, he lifted her, wheeling the pair in a quick circle. Again, testing if she was really there, that it was not a trick of the mind, or of a mirage craved deep in the subconscious. She emitted a gurgled laugh at the movement.

"You're home."

"I am."

They both stood there, unsure of what was next. She could tell by her own closeness that he had lost significant weight, most likely close to three stone. He was skeletal, she wondered how he managed to keep on the horse for so long. Pulling away, Christine looked upon her husband. He had aged, grey hair poking out the sides of his head. Once gaunt skin, which had remained pale due to years underground, had tanned from constant sun exposure, making up for a lifetime without light. His hair swept slightly over his mask, much longer than the neat style she always saw him in. He smelled, well, traveled. Obviously he had not bathed in weeks. Despite it all, his eyes were the same. It was him, safe, and _here_.

And here he was, before her, after all these years. How they both had changed.

Christine hadn't really planned this far ahead. Of course, she prayed for this day for years, but she had never imagined how they would continue on. The children? She had supposed they would move past this, _mess_ , with their lives together, a happy family, a future they had _earned_. Had she presumed wrong? It had been a long time, what if he fell out of love with her? She must look like a fool, waiting for him for so long when he didn't even want the life she offered. With Erik, it was best not to assume anything, so she changed the subject.

"You have met your daughter?" Another flat comment. She felt so dull!

Erik looked down at Josephine, standing in complete fascination of the display before her. The young child was not used to such behavior from her mother. She was happy and she didn't understand. Her head was craned, so as to look right back.

Much to Christine's relief, and awe, he smiled, although faintly, nodding once. He did not remove his eyes from Josephine.

"I found I was pregnant a few weeks after your departure. She is so much like you; your eyes, your hair, your creativity, your music, well both of them actually, and mon dieu she never sleeps! Even her-" She was rambling, she knew it. There was so much to tell, to catch up on, they had to start somewhere. How overwhelmed he must feel! To learn of a daughter ten minutes ago, return home after nearly seven years, she felt embarrassed for bombarding him with everything, a feeling she had not anticipated.

As if snapping out of a spell, he looked at Christine once more, effectively silencing her in his suddenness.

"Where is he?" Almost demanding in its intensity.

"Upstairs, sleeping. You may go up there if you wish, I am sure he would love such a surprise. He talks of you incessantly."

It looked as if Erik was the one getting surprised. He did not reply.

Suddenly, remembering of his weary state, she stepped towards the kitchen, rustling through drawers and cabinets to find something suitable for him. How exhausted he must be! He did not look good, the tan skin paling since he walked into the house. She did not want to think why.

"Please, Erik, sit down. Nadir is here, he has been a true friend these past months, to both me and the children. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, I believe we have some fruit from yesterday somewhere in here. Or perhaps some ham? Bread is baking as we speak." She was rambling again. She felt awkward and pathetic.

He remained standing. "Water."

Before she turned to fetch it from the pitcher, however, she caught her husband's blazing eyes, practically seething with fury at Nadir.

"Daroga."

"Salaam dooet e man! I am glad you have made it out of the pit unscathed." The Daroga in question looked unperturbed. Her estimation of Nadir towards her husband made it seem that they were on good terms. Was she wrong?

With a nod of the head Erik took his seat at the table, a nonverbal reply. Nadir let out a cough, speaking up.

"I shall see to Oberon." Obviously he took the hint.

What had happened? Not just with Nadir, with everything? She found herself having difficulty in imagining his life for the past seven years. Where had he gone, what had he done? Did he long for her as much as she him? Her husband sat in his usual seat at the table, but in that familiar place he seemed a stranger.

Erik stared straight, sipping at the water. It was all very strange. They were married. So why did she not know what to say? _I'm happy you're alive. I missed you more than life itself. Please never go away again._ Finally, she came up with something, somewhere in-between that she hoped would pass as at least semi-appropriate.

"I have missed you so much, Erik." Her hand fell to his shoulder. He flinched.

She felt rejected. Were they back to the Opera House years, each afraid of the other's secret feelings? Not wanting to confront him, she removed her hand.

"Papa, will you play music for us?" Josephine said. Christine was thankful for the interruption. She did not think she could bear the force of the silence that would have ensued, sitting there like dead weight.

"Josephine, I am sure he is much too tire-"

"Yes, I shall, my girl."

"Erik, you don't have to."

"I shall. Might I remind you, I have not touched a piano for six and a half years." He turned to the child, making absurd motions with his hands "My fingers are practically itching."

A light laugh served as a response to that.

They played a strange game, communicating through the child in attempt of avoiding each other. Christine wanted to speak with him, had to, but it seemed that he didn't reciprocate the sentiment. Perhaps he only desired time with the children, and wanted nothing to do with her. She knew plenty of married couples who exhibited similar situations. They would take separate bedrooms, but remain together for the children. Raoul's parents had done the same, and it had worked fine, from the brief recount he had mentioned to her.

It would be best to change tactics then, focus her mind on the children.

"I will get Alexandre now." She announced.

In a few seconds the boy was essentially vaulting down the stairs, skipping three steps at time in his excitement.

"Papa!" Shirt barely tucked into his pants, with no socks on, he practically launched himself at Erik. Christine was surprised the chair hadn't fallen over completely. In a brief moment of childish immaturity, she was jealous she was not in Alexandre's place, in his arms.

What struck her, though, was the laugh that resounded. How she longed to hear it all these years! It was better than her imagination. Thick and rich and low, it filled up the room, reverberating off the wood paneling. It was more than ample reward for her patience.

"I have brought gifts for you both." He was met with wide grins.

Both? He hadn't known of Josephine; he must have collected extra gifts for Alexandre. Nevertheless, she was grateful, as her daughter was often, by circumstance, placed in her older brother's shadow.

"Ladies first." He said quietly.

Walking to his bag - he must have dropped in at some point - Christine watched in awe as her husband revealed within it a music box. It was small, practical to carry in a saddlebag, yet it displayed fine patterns and expensive quality. Showcasing various designs that looked similar to those she recognized from the large Persian rug they owned, as well as his dressing gown, it played a simple tune as he deftly cranked the dial. It even had a monkey atop!

Its receiver watched in adept attention, taking the box carefully as if it were the most valued jewel in the world - which it was probably close to in price, knowing Erik.

"Thank you Papa." Her joy was not overshadowed by her seriousness. She cradled it with great care, inspecting the monkey's various accoutrements and extravagant trappings.

Alexandre was next. Rocking back from his heels to his toes, the boy was impatient to discover what he would be gifted. Frankly, Christine wanted to know, too.

He pulled out a pocket watch, intricate and elaborate. Contrasting against the beaten bag, it was absolutely beautiful; gold leafed exterior showcased various patterns that were foreign to her. Showing Alexandre how to open it, the boy marveled at the skillful technique its creator must have possessed, which was evidenced in the marvelously adorned clock face.

"It is the right time, yes?" Erik said.

Squinting at the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway, Alexandre replied. "Yes, father. Oh thank you!" He embraced the masked man again.

Christine then realized that she forgot to pick up the mess she had made with the plate.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent, well, quietly, much to Christine's surprise. Excusing the children from their daily chores, she prepared the meals that day, silently urging Erik to eat more by inconspicuously setting more food on his plate. Still, he ate very little. He was so skinny! She vowed to herself that she would change that fact. He mainly spoke to the children, and her mood greyened. After a few simple songs he played, which she still soaked in like a starved woman, they all gathered into the parlor, and he sat in his old chair, fire flickering across his mask. Josephine rested her head on his knee, Alexandre splayed on the floor. Christine stood, her heart heavy. Did he truly not want her at all? He had burned down an entire Opera House for her, she thought darkly.

But she should not be thinking this! It truly was a beautiful scene before her. This man had been without his children for years! And they him! She should be relieved that they were finally getting to know each other. After all, she did love watching her husband with them. It felt so, - natural, domestic. A funny juxtaposition when comparing his former life. And the children, they were so happy! Their lives could finally be _normal_ again. Christine knew, more than anyone, the trials of growing up parent-less. This gave her comfort, as she listened in to Erik entertaining them with his idealized adventure stories of his journey. She noticed he left out the assassination part.

Alexandre kept asking questions, of the exotic lands of Asia and wild animals and various languages Erik spoke. The mythical figure of his father was finally humanized, before him, in the flesh. Josephine was quiet, though no less active in her attention.

Nadir mainly kept to the background. Christine noticed his lack of comfort in the hours since Erik's return. She knew he felt that he was intruding, but even Christine felt that way. She was glad he was there, it would be pitiful indeed to be the only outsider, and she was his wife. Christine avoided the subject of her worries with her husband, clinging to casual utterances that characterized daily life, and keeping conversation centered around the children.

She smiled as he weaved together a wonderfully spellbinding story, reminded of the tales he would tell her in her youth, when she couldn't sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

It was well into the evening, close to one o'clock. Like the night prior, it had ended with music. She had caught Alexandre yawning, in response to Erik playing a dreamlike lullaby, coaxing the children to rest. Christine was thankful, she didn't want to be the villain taking them away from her father. When she put them to bed, Erik merely stood behind her, watching what felt routine to her. Perhaps he felt he was intruding, now. She didn't want him to feel that way, he was part of this family as much as she. Dimming the lamp on Alexandre's bedside, she followed her husband out, but not before Erik promised the boy he would still be there when he awoke.

Children put to bed, Christine grew fidgety - something he never liked during their lessons. He didn't say anything, though.

"Please, allow me to draw you a bath."

He nodded, following her to her bedroom. _Their bedroom,_ and onto the adjoining bathroom _._

"I have regularly washed your clothes, should you want them back." Handing him a towel and clean change of apparel, she gracefully withdrew, not expecting the same intimacy they shared prior.

* * *

Want them back? They were his clothes, and it was not as if he had many other options. He did reek of horse and sweat, pushing through the last leg of travel to blame. He scrubbed at his arms, hard, slowly stripping away the built up grime, an attempt to gain back his facade of a gentleman. How Christine must think of him! Well, he wasn't exactly handsome before, now was he? But at least he had looked socially acceptable from the neck down. He had wanted to see them so much, his heart quivered in anticipation as the miles separating them slowly disappeared. In all honesty, he wasn't even thinking of the way he presented himself until his arrival.

This day had been bizarre, to say the least. It was strange and exasperating and joyous all in simultaneous junction. At the end of the night, he had played the small audience a brief review of songs, despite being a bit out of practice. They all seemed appeased enough. Fortunately, Christine had kept the instrument in tune. Her father's violin, on the other hand - he would see to that tomorrow.

And Christine. How wonderful she was! The portrait had not done her justice, nor his imagination. Still the bursting image of herself in her youth, though with an air of wisdom about her he could not quite place. He longed for her, soft skin and pretty words, lilting voice and calming charm. He wanted to hear her laugh grace his eardrum once more. How could she want the same, he reasoned. He had returned to her, six years too late, a shadow of a man she once knew. He had broken his word. His sorry effort in keeping his wife and son, _and now daughter,_ safe had all been in vain. Undeserving was he of such titles of father and husband. He was not enough.

He did not want to force anything upon Christine, this separation may very well have altered things. Eyeing the ring she still wore, she had not remarried, much to his relief, but she could have kept it as a mere keepsake, plenty of widows carry it with them. It was not his place to jump to conclusions, or expect anything from her, no matter how much he wanted it himself.

Feeling refreshed, and changing into proper clothing, an inkling of dignity was restored. Pulling out the left-hand drawer, he found what he sought, a straight razor and pumice stone. It was the same place it had been seven years prior.

He already knew he was a father, but to a girl? He already proved to be inadequate with even Alexandre. One can have fun with a son, but they must be a father to a girl. Raising a daughter, not a task to be taken lightly. Various accomplishments, education, suitors. It was uncharted territory. He didn't even know this child, Josephine, Christine had named her. _Addition to the family._ An unexpected one, at that. He knew at once he loved her. Sweet and light and pure, the little mademoiselle. Would Christine even want him to be near her, her unsullied child?

Erik was afraid. Terrified, actually, of that unfortunate possibility, that Christine would send him away. He felt ashamed, really, in his avoidance of Christine. _I love you, please take me back. I will give you the world if you only do this,_ He wanted to say. But he was afraid, afraid that it would all shatter, afraid that his seven year dream would crumble in before his eyes. He would have this one day with the children, and if she should be rid of him, so be it. The memory of that simple day would sustain him forever.

He emerged to find his wife, sitting on the bed. She was staring straight at the floor, eyes cloudy. A fire had been started.

* * *

And now they were alone, now she had her chance. She wanted to ask him a thousand questions, not knowing where to start. She had never been the most articulate, and she felt he had been dismissive towards her for the length of the day. She accepted it. Swallowing her pride, albeit reluctantly, she twisted and faced him, sheltered within the bedframe.

"I know it may not be the same to you now. But for the children, we must continue on. More than anything, they need their father."

He looked taken aback, eyebrow quirked.

"You believe that your children need me? A selfish monster."

She huffed. "Erik you are neither of those things."

Eyes briefly flickered to the open door, and he quickly closed it, although silently.

"Am I not? I assassinated a king, and several other of his men. Towards this, I carry no guilt." Christine merely stared in horror. "My only shred of remorse lies towards you."

"And what have you done to feel remorseful towards me?" She said. It was not accusatory, but quizzatory.

"The portrait. By God the portrait!" He confessed. "I have imagined for five years how our lives would have been different had I not brought that damn thing!"

"I fault no man for having sentiment." She said, truthfully.

He ignored her. "My stupid corpse risked the lives of my wife, my son, and now I learn my daughter?" His breath faltered for several seconds, bony hands shooting to his scalp, roughly pulling at the damp hair there.

"This was not in your control."

"Yes it was, Christine. It is very simple, actually, I should not have taken it."

"You have endured punishment enough. Cursed to wander the earth for five years! I say you have paid your due"

"Hell is not enough punishment for the danger I put you and your children in."

"Our children." She was resolute in her intentions.

"I do not deserve them, Christine. You have raised them, they are yours." He focused his gaze on the fire.

"Do you really believe that they would have let you go, Erik? This was just the excuse they needed to lay claim over - or worse, kill you." She was serious, flat-toned. "I am the one who is selfish, for wanting you to do everything within your power to return home. You are not to answer to me for whatever crimes you may have committed. I am just as culpable as you for wanting you to do them, because that would mean you could come back to _me_."

He didn't agree with her, not in the slightest. Of course, the situation in Persia would have escalated, she was right about that. She was stronger, than before, less - naive - about things like that. But her poor judgement as to the type of man he was? That had not changed in the slightest.

The fire crackled. A log crumbled in on itself, succumbing to the heat.

"She looks like my mother." Erik shivered.

"She looks like you." She said.

She heard his laugh for the second time that day, only this time it was jeering, mocking in its character.

"Now that would be cruel indeed, Madame."

Christine bypassed the remark. "The child wishes nothing more than to know you, Erik. Will you not grant her that?"

Golden eyes nearly vibrated with emotion. "You want me around them?"

"Oh, my husband, why would you ever think I would not?"

He was silent.

"Erik, is this why… why you didn't speak to me? Did you think, I would send you awa-"

"Christine-"

"No! Oh Erik, what kind of mother would I be? To rip their father from their grasp, with so many years lost! Husband, I want nothing more than for you to be in their lives." Her hands drew paths upon his arms.

"You raised them, all alone." She could read the guilt splayed across his features.

"We have both had our challenges." Christine held his hand, feeling the harsh lines and tendons. "But now, it is different, now… now we no longer have to face them alone." She hinted at her hope of a future together, praying he still loved her.

"Forgive me." _Not just for this. For everything I did and did not do. For the circumstances being what they are. For doubting you._

She had once pardoned him, seven years ago- before he left. Erik needed it once again.

"Forgiven." Her smile nearly melted him where he stood.

"The children, they truly are- astonishing. Thank you, Christine." Crimson flashed to her cheeks, she had never thought herself a good mother. Alexandre could have gravely injured himself had Nadir not found him, and Josephine, sneaking out at all hours! It had been so hard, and she had tried her best, knowing it would never be enough, but praying it would be acceptable. Now, it could finally be complete, and they could be afforded the paternal guidance she could never have provided.

"You deserve them, Erik. If you know anything, know this."

They stood there a while, soaking in the meaning of it all. Her hand reached out, skimming the edges of his mask. Instinctively he started backwards.

"Please." She said.

"Christine, this face has not improved with age."

"I want to see my husband."

It was his turn to stare. At the end of several heavy pauses, she won, had waited him out. So she had not forgotten, after all these years, to force him out of hiding.

Reluctant hands reached towards the leather ties. He handed it to her, proof of his acquiescence. Indeed, it had not improved, but it hadn't exactly worsened, either. The taut skin, bloated lips, cratered cheeks were all the same as she remembered before. It was the face of the man she had missed for seven years. How could she not be happy?

Her palm touched a now wettened cheek, and his hand flew out, snatching her wrist.

"Why do you not trust me?" Her face indicated poorly disguised disappointment. It was a fair question. After all, they had been intimate before. Well, more than that, as evidenced by the children. His mask was usually, well, off, before. So why did it feel different now?

"I seemed to have developed some new habits, I suppose." His hand fell, meekly looking down at the carpet.

Not satisfied with such an answer, she compelled every inch of her small being to deposit the last semblance of fear she carried with her. Fear of rejection, she supposed it was. Now was not the time for skirting the truth. She needed to know. She had not endured seven years of loeneliness for him to return, and not know the truth of her circumstance. Of the circumstances concerning her children's lives. Childish anxieties had been put away years before. Beginning her confession, she started speaking to his necktie, finding it easier than looking into his invading eyes.

"Erik, you have been gone a long time. Regardless, the children yearn for their father in their life, and I shall do everything in my power for it to be so." Christine was serious, guarded. Then she inhaled.

"I know things may have changed for you. I do not know what you have gone through, all I can do is thank you for coming back to me." Focusing on those golden irises, she finally found her courage. In the midst of this act of bravery, however, salty tears ran down her face, exchange for allowing herself to show such valor.

"It was absolute hell when you were gone, I cannot lie. Every day I longed for you, and every day my heart shattered. But I lived with it, for their sake. I still love you, and I always will. I can only hope that you feel the same way."

It was then that his lips descended upon hers. He was a poor excuse for a lover - gaunt frame and all its glory. But it didn't matter to her. Her slight hands shot up to his hair, longer now than before, threading the strands. How she missed those lips! Uneven and unnatural, pronounced and perfect.

His hands travelled down her waist, encircling her hips, pulling her close. They warmed each other. The kiss became desperate. His hot mouth probed hers, and she could taste its saltiness, unaware of whose tears it came from. She could feel his thinness against her, but he still did not fail to send a thrill down her spinal column.

When his hands arrived at buttons of her dress, and then her corset, and then her chemise, the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she just realized he had been steering them backwards. He pulled away then, hands lingering on the fabric, silently pleading.

Catching her breath for a moment, she responded in kind, pulling him towards her person, all too ready to learn him again.

* * *

The fire was dying, a orange glow coating the room. She traced a meager outline with her finger, repeating a path on his upper arm. Neither spoke for a long time, both preferring to look at each other, much to Erik's bewilderment. Christine broke the silence.

"I feel as if... we have both changed, and yet remain duplicates of our former selves."

"Then I look forward to getting to know you, mon amour."

She kissed him again, moving to lay on top of him. It was a comforting gesture, soothing, assuring him of her continued presence. They would do this sometimes, before, reminding the other that they were there. When he had gone, she had nearly forgotten - the little actions that comprise the much larger picture of marriage.

"Christine, why did you doubt my love?" He looked - hurt.

She gazed at his chest, contemplating an answer. She felt guilty for jumping to conclusions.

"I suppose, well, it had been so long and… You were mainly speaking with the children… which I wanted you too... it just…" Why didn't he speak? She was sputtering, how foolish she was!

"Oh Erik! I thought you had died! And I almost died with you! When Nadir came and told me of everything, I allowed myself to hope that, well, everything would be _normal_ again."

"I didn't want to presume anything, much less expect, things to go back to before. Sometimes, I have heard, that husbands return from war, and it's not the same." Fear was apparent in her eyes.

He was serious, taking in her fears with patience. Long fingers raked through brown curls, brushing past her ear.

"I beg you, Christine. Never doubt me again." The words were gentle.

She could only nod.

Many minutes passed. Christine grew comfortable, her head rose and fell with his chest. A warm peace settle upon them, more powerful than either could remember experiencing.

"You know, I have a welcome home gift ready for you." She smirked.

"And what would that be?"

"Like you have surprised me today, I am to surprise you." She said, pecking him on an unmasked cheek.

He did not like surprises; he just had the shock of his life in finding out of Josephine. However, this one was not going to be pried from his pretty wife, so he submitted, changing the subject.

"Tell me about them."

She stretched against his much longer form. He truly was much taller than her. Despite being Swedish, she had never inherited height, and splayed against her husband, it was apparent. She usually ignored it, becoming used to looking up all the time. Facing him, her feet barely reached past his knees. It was almost comical, if one paid attention.

Eventually finding comfort again throughout all the bony spots, she took note that he smelled remarkable better than before. With her cheek resting underneath his collarbone, she began.

"Your son is most rambunctious." She felt, more than heard, his low chuckle.

"Just a few months ago, he got on Traveller, and she took off with the poor boy. I swear it was God that put Nadir in his path. He was coming here when he ran into Alexandre, not knowing who he was!"

"He always told me he was cursed with looking out for me. Now I can see the curse spans generations." Her hair was softer than he remembered.

"But since then he has become a much better equestrian." She sat up in her excitement. "Oh, you must teach him, Erik! And he loves the piano, you will teach him, won't you?"

His mouth twitched. "Of course, mon cher."

"Josephine is so much like you, Erik. I daresay she is the smartest five year old I've ever met! She is usually quiet, but not today, not around you. I am so glad of it." He soaked up every word.

"She is kind, and curious, and intuitive, and sometimes has a bit of temper; just last week, Alexandre was being quite rude, and she slapped him, right across the face!" He grinned. Christine playfully hit her hand on his chest. That golden laugh graced her ears yet again.

"Horrified as I was, and angry at the two, I must confess I was proud of her, for - sticking up for herself." She took a breath, exasperated. "Sometimes I wonder what is going through that girl's mind."

"Wait here." He said suddenly, putting on his dressing gown to leave their shared reverie.

"Erik!" She nearly yelped, concerned he would leave.

"One does not tell another to wait when one is not to return." Christine caught the double meaning. "I shall be right back, ma cher."

She only just barely began to collect her thoughts concerning recent events when he came striding in, hand sheltered behind his back like a little boy. And like a little boy, he was proud of whatever was behind his back.

"Close your eyes." This was an interesting development. Christine followed along, awaiting whatever he was about to reveal.

In seconds, cool beads rested on her neck, clearly a necklace of some sort.

"Open."

"Erik." The pearls glistened marvelously, the yellow from the fire countering the shadows, gracing their smooth surfaces just right. They were fine, each encased in intricate fixings, woven together upon what looked to be a golden chain.

Christine started crying again.

"They are… absolutely beautiful." She managed to communicate through sniffles.

"Like its owner."

She flushed at that. "Wherever did you acquire them?"

"I traded it from a merchant in India." As if it were the most mundane task in the world. She didn't ask what he traded it for.

Carefully placing the treasured object into the dresser, Christine settled into a tranquil calmness, the left side of the bed finally occupied again.

"You are home."

"I am."

It was a certainty this time, no longer a confirmation.


	12. Chapter 12

**It's been a while since the last update. But I do plan to finish this story. Thank you to all who have taken the time to read. I really do appreciate it!**

The pair stayed awake long into the night, low tones accompanying the crackling flames opposite them. The conversation consisted of mostly Christine talking, and she could tell it was what he preferred. She could tell he just wanted to resume his life, a wish they both shared. But the years of his life that were missing from her knowledge, they did nag at her a bit. It could wait, she reminded herself. If anything, she had learned patience during these slow years, and she had faith in that someday, the truth of his past, his entire past, would be revealed to her. Including their most recent separation.

Keeping this in mind, Christine contented herself with his reactions to her stories and anecdotes of the children over the years; Josephine's birth, her first word; normal rites of passage for a young child. His eyes shone. She took his hand in both of hers, smoothing over the ragged planes.

"It is not your fault. She will understand. She does understand."

She expected more of a reaction, sharp words, or at least a negation. Instead, his thumb merely stroked her palm, back and forth, eyes locked on their intertwined hands.

"Your hands. They are calloused." Simple words, but they carried a weight, their delivery heavy.

"So are yours."

The look in his eye urged her to understand his sentiment.

"Really, I do not mind the work. It was good for me, I suppose- kept my mind off things, made me focus on the day-to-day."

"I suppose I attempted the same." _Attempted_. If Christine knew one thing about her husband, it was that words always carried precise meaning.

"Erik- how...how did you manage- everything?"

"I should say the same to you." He said.

It was then he pulled away. Back firmly pressed into the mattress; he realized he had missed this. The simple pleasures a grounded life had afforded. He never wanted to lay upon a horrid cot again, much less the ground. The fire's warmth spread further into the room.

She noticed his expression fixed on the ceiling. Blank. She chose to wait.

"I had one goal. That drove me forward. I would do anything to return. It was a longing, a need I had to fulfill. Only one thing superseded it: Christine and Alexandre."

She sat up, hoping looking upon him would reveal more to her. His face revealed nothing.

"There were times, I was nearing the Austrian border. They were close. I wanted to ride west, so much I had almost risked everything. They would have followed me, already raiding post offices, attempting to track letters I may have sent, questioning townspeople.

His eyes closed. She grabbed his hand, kissing the knuckles.

"So I turned back." Her grip tightened.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever done, Christine. I never knew when my next chance would be. I contemplated confronting them, killing them all." He said.

Their gazes locked.

"The killing. It had gotten me into this mess in the first pla-" He began to say.

"Erik, you were defending yourself. That horrible man was going to order your death! Going to hurt Alexan-" She was crying again, tears apparent.

He rose, brushing the drops aside with his thumb. She was making excuses, they both knew. He would carry the weight of those sins for the rest of his life. She would too, in a way.

And there was no way to help, no way to fix it or make it better. It was not her place to. Her husband had committed terrible evils in his life, justified or not, and neither of them could change that. She once contemplated if hers was a poor attitude to have, giving up, as it were. But now she knew it was just a blatant truth, like her father being dead. A painful one at that.

She had witnessed him trying to lead a better life. His selflessness with her, the children. Her loving him was never questioned, and neither was her need for him to be in her life, but Christine often wondered if her choices were ethical, to say the least. She was a parent, and responsible for her children's sense of morality. She knew it was easier to accept her husband because she loved him. She had chosen to love him. But their children, were they to know? Should she ignore his choices? How were they to tell the children? Those were truths she was loathe to face alone. And then he came back.

Her husband had killed people. And yet to her he was a good man. It was all very gray. All she could do was hold him.

"There were ten of them- even- even if I had decided that killing them was the right course of action, I had no idea if I could have taken them alone. I am sorry, Christine." He said.

"Sorry? Enough, Erik! God gave you back, and that is all that matters. You must be free of this guilt towards me. And you do not owe me anything. Just be here, with us. That's all I want." She cradled his face in her palms.

"Oh, Christine." He breathed, almost overwhelming her with his embrace.

* * *

The following morning he woke up sometime after dawn, a comforting peace settling deep within his chest at the sight of Christine, hair fanned out, a small hand resting on his chest. Surprisingly, he felt refreshed, despite only securing a few hours of sleep. His wife stirred, mumbling softly as he sat up.

"Erik- let me.. Make you some breakfast." Always so selfless. He was lucky she would put up with him.

"No, my love-" he whispered. "I must speak with the Daroga. Go back to sleep." He said, softly kissing her on the temple.

And so he would. He supposed he had treated the man rather ghastly. But Nadir's presence definitely had stirred fear in his heart. He had not expected him there- his friend with his wife and children. Perhaps Nadir had moved on after telling them, he thought. Of course, he knew Christine and the Daroga would never- _betray him_ -like that. The problem lay in Nadir's role to the children. Especially his son and daughter referring to the Daroga as 'Uncle Nadir'; now that had only fed his insecurity towards his own relationship with them. _The Daroga knows your daughter better than you do_. _And most likely your son._ He resented the fact. And so he had largely ignored his friendly acquaintance with bitterness.

Dressing for the day, Erik relished the feeling of clean clothing, tying his cravat with great care. Another minor relic of the past he had missed.

The mask had fallen to the floor sometime during the night. He put it on.

His footsteps were louder than usual coming down the stairs. Those steps would have to be worked on.

Nadir was dressed formally, a silver embroidered waistcoat snugly fitted atop a white shirt. Square bifocals accompanied the ensemble, making the older man appear a seasoned professor. His beard was neatly trimmed. Perhaps he was tired of dressing in rags, Erik mused.

"Up for morning prayers, Daroga?"

"Why yes, Erik. And you?" Nadir said from his perch at the kitchen table, reading a paper.

"I was done sleeping." Erik said.

Nadir smiled. So the sarcasm hadn't left his friend after all the hardship. He took it as a good sign, that Erik might be able to achieve normality, well, _Erik's version of normality,_ after all of this.

Nadir had an idea as to where this was going. Erik stood awkwardly, obviously mulling over how best to say something.

"Well, stop lingering in the stairwell, come sit. I made coffee."

Erik rolled his eyes, internally acknowledging the value of this man's friendship over the years. Saving his sorry carcass more times than he could count. Opening his family up to a vagrant and assassin. Erik was always confused by this.

"Actually, Nadir, I wish to- uhh…". Erik was mumbling. Nadir had to stifle a laugh. He would take it as laughing _at_ him. Best avoid that argument altogether. And besides, he was curious. What had gotten in the way of Erik speaking, ever?

"Uhm… I…,apologize." The last syllable got very quiet, evidence to his friend's wounded pride. Oh, Nadir would milk this.

"Whatever for?" Nadir said patiently.

Erik scowled, huffing in annoyance. Fine. He would get the damn thing over with.

"You did me a favor. I suppose I did not treat you with the most respect."

"No, I suppose you did not." Nadir said, sipping his morning drink. And then he waited a little longer.

Erik practically glowered.

Breaking the heavy silence, the Daroga couldn't take it anymore. He almost spit out his coffee. Eyes shining with mirth, he quickly spoke.

"Thank you, my friend, I do earnestly accept your apology." Nadir said, placing a palm across his chest. He thought Erik's eyes would permanently stick facing the back of his head were they to roll any farther.

Pride muffled, Erik sat down, snatching the paper out of the older man's grip.

"It is good to see you are back to your old self." Nadir said.

"Hmph." Erik replied.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, until the pair heard small feet echo down the stairs. Josephine clutched her small toy horse, cleaned for yesterday's trying adventure. She eyed the two men sheepishly, shy despite her extroverted blip in meeting her father the morning before. Her thin fingers twiddled the horse's mane, hesitant. And looking to his right- so was Erik.

Nadir broke the strange tension.

"Good morning, Josie"

"Good morning, Uncle Nadir." Barely audible.

Josephine would often wake up early, and he would usually fix her a small breakfast of some sort. Christine would feel terrible, claiming that he didn't need to 'babysit' her children, but in reality, it gave him joy to offer some kind of help. It reminded him of being a father, and of taking care of someone. It was closure, in a sense. He was enjoying the moments that were stolen when Reza got sick.

Despite this, he sometimes felt as if he was intruding into his friend's family. Christine insisted otherwise, but secretly he felt guilty towards Erik. They both knew the pain of having their family taken away.

The small girl approached Erik wearily. As Erik glanced towards Nadir, he noticed the inkling of a smile begin to spread across the man's face. Erik glared at him.

"Papa?" Josephine said.

Erik's eyes snapped back at his daughter, his gaze softening immediately. The child hadn't seemed frightened the day prior, but perhaps she seemed a little nervous now, eyes downcast and hands fidgeting. He would not have his children being scared of him. No, that would not do.

"Yes, my dear girl?" He said, as softly as he could manage.

"Can you...can you make me some eggs?" Erik smirked.

"Yes, of course."

As he started to leave for the stove, he noticed that the Daroga's idiotic grin had failed to dissipate, as well as a small form treading towards him.

"You wish for me to teach you?"

She nodded. A most serious look plastered across her features.

"Come." He said, waving a hand briefly as to indicate his sentiment.

Once at the stovetop, he noticed something.

"I suppose you cannot see much all the way down there. Here-" He gently lifted her up, supporting her with one arm as he began the meal.

"Papa?" Josephine said.

"Yes?" Came his hushed reply.

"You smell nicer." He couldn't help but laugh at that.


	13. Chapter 13

The day progressed steadily. Nadir had left, looking at properties nearby, a place he could permanently stay without intruding upon the small family. It had been on his mind for a while, but Erik's return certainly triggered him into action. Although his friend put up with him, he was not sure if either could stand living together once they were both back on their feet. And trodding back to his own country was most certainly not an option. Yes, a new situation would be healthier for both of their sanities.

Christine emerged from the bedroom only an hour later, dressed and optimistic to start the day. She had pinched her cheeks a bit, biting her lip to emphasis the color. Staring into the mirror hanging in the hall, she eyed herself. Had she changed? She certainly had gained a few pounds, here and there, after birthing two children. But then again, she was rather skinny during her Opera days. Dancers were groomed to stay in top shape, and she remembered a few ballerinas starving themselves before performances, or smoking to curb their appetite. She shook that memory off, but then another one came bubbling up.

"Christine, what is it?" Erik said with a frustrated sigh.

They were only just warming up before a vocal lesson. She was concentrating very hard on his cravat. She felt rather dizzy at the moment.

"I am tired, _Maestro_."

His gaze pressed hard from the piano bench. After a long second, he spoke.

"Very well. Continue with the scales." And that was the end of it. For a while.

The lesson was going exceptionally smooth considering her current state of health. She leaned upon the piano a bit, which did not escape his notice, but he declined comment, she noticed gratefully.

Auditions for _La Traviata_ were nearly commenced, and although her voice was improving by the day, they both new she would not be ready for this Opera run. Maybe the next one, Erik had said, if she worked hard.

So, still in the ballet corps, she would run back and forth between rehearsal and lessons, sneaking in back passages and doorways in order to swing by unnoticed. Sometimes he would let her start stretching during their lessons. She had appreciated that. It was all very tiring.

He was fixing the sheet music between songs when her stomach grumbled especially loudly.

"When have you last eaten?" She felt, as opposed to heard, his anger rising.

Blood flushed away from her face, sinking down into her chest.

"Oh! I am sorry, Erik!" She cried, brow furrowing in anxiety.

It had been a day. Well, a day and a half, to be exact. And she certainly was not the best dancer in the corps, definitely towards to bottom in skill and grace. That fact did not pass the other dancers, Christine thought grimly. She needed every bit of extra leeway to have even a chance at earning a dance solo, and she had expected him to be proud that she was so committed. Obviously, he wasn't.

Erik slammed the cover over the piano keys. This was the end of the lesson, it looked like. "How on earth can your voice improve if you neglect your body, Christine?"

"I was trying to prepare, to look presentable for auditions!" His anger, bright at the beginning, mellowed and dissipated. He seemed more pacified, at least.

"Oh, Christine." He looked like he wanted to leave the bench, to approach, but he stayed stagnant, only relaxing his spine a little. Mortified at his words, she just stared at the floor.

"Listen to me, my dear. Do not alter yourself for them" He said with noticeable disgust. "You have a golden future ahead of you, do not lower yourself in such a way."

His tone almost frightened her, its fervency and perhaps imploring nature left her silent. She could only nod.

A few moments later he returned to her with a large lunch. She was famished.

Brutus' wet nose brushing against her palm broke her from her reverie. Christine felt silly sometimes. Erik had not complained last night. She smiled to herself and padded down the steps.

A contented Josephine sat with plate at the table, Erik's proud gaze being the only clue to her that he had cooked. She couldn't blame him, really, in that these little bits of parenting carried heavy importance with him. He had been excluded from those kinds of moments.

"Good morning." She said, kissing her husband's cheek.

Erik patted Brutus on the head.

"Where has Nadir gone off to?" Christine asked.

"The old fool went property hunting I expect." He said, flipping the newspaper with this index finger.

This alarmed Christine. Erik had _just_ gotten back. Was this why he was leaving? The children adored him, and he was good to confide in. Nadir had not spoken to her about it. This prompted her to ask-

"He's moving?"

Erik set down his paper and looked at her, obviously not anticipating such a response.

"Yes. Why, Christine, did you expect him to live with us forever?" He said.

"Well, no, but it was nice, when he was here. I like him. The children do too. He's a good friend."

Erik looked noticeably perturbed. He thought for a bit, staring at Josephine finishing up her food.

"Do not fear, my wife, that foul leech will be around, sooner than later, unfortunately."

She took it as a concession on his part. Erik and Nadir were _friends_ , after all, as loathe as her husband would be to admit it.

"Mama! Can you sing today?" Her daughter chimed in.

Erik turned sharply to look at Christine. So much for a surprise.

"You have kept at it?" He seemed surprised. Not hurt, necessarily. It wasn't a betrayal. Not in the slightest. But she could understand how that decision would cause him to stop. Her voice had been both of theirs, a result of the continual effort on both teacher and student.

"I wanted to surprise you." Christine shrugged.

"Yes, but why?" His expression was still unreadable, much like his voice.

"It pained me to just stand by and watch our work go to waste." She replied honestly. "It helped me."

She knew that he realized what she meant when he nodded slowly. _It helped me remember you. To remember us together. I didn't know if you were coming back. What else was I to do?_

"Good. I am glad of it." A peaceful look gathered in his eyes, making them twinkle.

She hugged him then, a brief embrace from behind him sitting in the chair. His unmasked cheek touching hers. He sighed.

"You will sing for me, no?" He said, as if remembering something.

"Of course Erik, but I have some things to do first." _Feeding the chickens, dogs, taking the horses out to pasture, to name a few._

"I will take care of all that." He said, abruptly standing, causing her balance to falter a bit.

"My apologies, my dear." He mentioned, before darting towards the door. Before he did so, though, he called rather loudly towards the upstairs of the house.

"Alexandre!" He waited a few moments. Scuffling of feet could be heard from above. "Quit daydreaming and warm your mother's voice up, _if you please_."

* * *

Christine stood by the piano. Erik had been gone nearly a half hour, which granted her more time to sufficiently warm her voice and grab a bite to eat. Good, she thought. As her son began to play into the sixth octave, she felt a fluttering feeling accompanying her rapid heartbeat. Christine smoothed out her dress, an attempt at soothing herself as well as drying her dampening palms. What if he didn't like it? She told him she had been practicing, yet it was entirely on her own. It was a difficult feat for anyone to self correct without a teacher, and she did not consider herself a musical virtuoso by any means.

What if he didn't like the song? It was stupid, she knew. He had always been rather insistent on what she should and should not sing, what would best suit her voice. But this piece was challenging, not just for it's difficult range, but its demanding for strong breath control, as well.

What it all boiled down to though, was she had no idea how he would react. Like most things, Christine thought. She was able to read his facial and body expressions fairly well, despite his reluctance to outwardly show emotion sometimes. Maybe this is what made her better at it though, she had to look for the hints; a turn of the head, a quirk of the lip, to determine if he was contented or furious.

The door swinging open broke her from her thoughts. It looked like her warm ups were done. The nerves came back. Erik smiled at her. This was certainly the most jovial he had been since his return, and it relaxed her a bit. He was her husband. What would he do if she was flat? _Not cast her in a role?_ The drama of her situation felt so high because the stakes were so low. Still, she wanted to please him, maybe venture to impress him, but that took a lot, so Christine kept her hopes at bay.

Alexandre shot up from the piano, taking the hint that his father was eyeing it from the moment he walked in the door. Erik nodded in thanks.

"I heard a bit of the scales, they were very good." He said casually as he took a seat at the bench.

A small smile emerged from her, but inwardly it felt as if several tiny explosions were taking place in her chest cavity. His role of husband transitioned to teacher with practiced ease. And the fact that her teacher had complimented her, that was a victory in and of itself, clearly.

"Now, what have you been working on?" He seemed intrigued.

"Oh, some arias here and there. Last week Alexandre helped refresh my memory of Pamina's aria, and I've worked on quite of bit of Carmen. I'd like to sing another piece today, though." Christine said.

"Yes? And what would that be?" He said with a quirked eyebrow.

Shifting through some papers and sheet music on top of the piano, she finally handed over the piece in question.

"Ah. The Doll's Song. I do not doubt you, my dear. Show me what exactly you've been working on." He said, briefly glancing over the sheet music.

"Whenever you are ready, Christine." He said. She saw the warmth in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded, and he launched into the song, coaxing the difficult notes from the piano as if he had it committed to memory. Maybe he did, she mused.

Alexandre and Josephine's excited faces did not escape her notice, and that gave her the courage to fully expose her voice. It ebbed and flowed through the melody, matching his rhythm side by side. Her voice soared, and she took enjoyment in playing the character. Almost halfway through the song, she got lost in it all, focusing solely on the sounds she knew she could produce, regardless of who was in the room. Approaching the G#, she looked at Erik with joy, and teasing him a bit, she purposely held the note longer than usual, liking how his shocked face tensed and then relaxed. A few minutes later, the song ended.

It was perfect. She knew it was perfect.

There was silence, his expression unreadable. Great.

"Christine- that- that was-" His eyes were running all over the room, literally searching for a word. "-flawless."

Then he stood from the bench and took two large steps to where she was standing. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her soundly.

"But I should not be surprised, you've only gotten lovelier since the day I met you." He said, pressing his forehead to hers.

She should not have pinched her cheeks that morning, the red flush she had then covered it.

"I'm glad you liked it." She said.

"Liked it? Liked it?! Christine, by God! Have you been holding out on me?" He laughed loudly.

She was the one that initiated contact then, bracing her arms around him fiercely.

"Alexandre, what is your secret?" He asked.

* * *

The four of them all fell into a comfortable routine. Nadir came for supper often, speaking with the adults and children alike. Christine felt lucky to have someone to confide in. Someone who knew her husband well. They regularly talked, and she considered him as close a friend as she would her dear Meg.

It was the first snow of the year. Late, for this deep into November. Although, for what the weather lost in its late timing, it made up for in its severity. Large banks were soon building upon the countryside, snow steadily covering the land. White flakes coated the barren fields, and the children had been begging to be let out. Erik had promised them he would take them out, were Alexandre to finish his English. It was nearly four, after all. Dinner had to be started soon, and darkness would soon fall upon La Rochelle. Their Uncle Nadir was expected within the hour. Alexandre would have to be hasty in his work.

Erik was splayed upon the fainting couch, dozing. Fire warmed the parlor, contrasting against the dull sky poking in through the window pane. Josephine sat, playing with Macbeth on the floor, flopping his ears back and forth. Brutus was most likely off somewhere avoiding such torment. And in the corner sat Christine, mending her son's ripped shirt. It had been torn from Alexandre falling off Oberon, attempting to jump a rather tall hurdle. The aging horse was most definitely not fond of that escapade.

Erik had been very active in the children's education, much to their mother's delight. He began to give Alexandre equestrian and piano lessons, and Josephine enjoyed violin and voice instruction from her father. Christine also felt contented by the fact that she had an extra person to help out around the house, as cynical as the fact may be.

She could not begrudge Erik his naps, since he slept so little, as she eyed him lazily. She thought it obvious, but her husband had a rather pleasing figure, tall and well-built, though he would never believe it. Fortunately, he had gained back most of his lost weight and he looked, well, human again. Still, he was much too skinny as her preference would dictate, making a mental note to put more food on his plate in the future.

Erik actually appeared rather comical. He was much too large for the short furniture piece. Long limbs stretched well past the end, and arms reached to the floor. His mask was slightly askew, giving hint to his present lack of consciousness. She smiled to herself at her husband's endearing state, pulling the thin thread through the light cotton.

This peace was shattered, however, by a small-but growing young man. Her son was getting close to her height, at the age of nine. Just going through another growth spurt this fall, Alexandre would probably be as tall as Erik, she guessed. Christine's only warning to her son's rapid attack were the heavy footsteps, an undisguised pounding, rising in volume. She assumed Alexandre had alerted his father, however Erik must have been exhausted to be sleeping this soundly. He typically woke up to even the slightest noise. Perhaps he was just comfortable. A corner of her mouth lifted.

The corner soon distorted into an anxious grimace, though, as she watched in dismay as her son practically launching himself at the sleeping victim. Alexandre must have completed his work for the day.

Christine couldn't decide between laughing or cringing. This attempt at making a decision, however, overclouded her judgement in warning her husband.

"Papa!" The boy hit his weight unceremoniously on his father's chest, slamming with a playful sort-of gusto.

Erik's eyes widened in panic, unsuspecting arms and legs flailing themselves to and fro, eventually landing themselves and their owner on the floor with a dull thud. Alexandre at least had the good sense of backing up, mind you, during this loud fall.

Erik's chest was heaving, his breathing lumbering and uneven. A broad hand flew to his face, ascertaining the damage to his masked cover. Correcting it rather hurriedly, and fixing himself out of his stupor, his eyes caught sight of his current attacker. They narrowed into two yellow slits.

Alexandre smile soon faded in looking down upon his father. The two others in the room froze, waiting for a consequence. The silence was palpable.

In one swift motion, Erik stood up, towering far beyond the growing boy. Scooping down, he hurled Alexandre over his shoulder, posture unaffected by the weight. Caught by surprise, the boy resisted in response, making pitiful attempts to thrash and squirm from his father's grasp.

"Erik!" Christine warned, throwing her project back in her seat.

Erik kept his eyes forward. "The boy wishes to play in the snow. He shall!" The front door flew open, gusts of wind and snow being swallowed into the house.

The pair trudged into the growing storm- or rather, Erik did.

Christine hastily started toward the door, confronted with the sudden chill.

"Papa! Let me go, let me go!" Alexandre said.

"Let you go? I'm only too happy to oblige, my dear boy!" He said, voice laced with mirth. And with that Alexandre was sent hurtling into a nearby snow drift.

He landed rather gently, much to Christine's relief. The unassuming pile made for an excellent cushion. Any further anxiety was calmed, however, by the simultaneous laughs she registered.

"Papa, do it again!"

Erik turned to see his wife- head cocked, arms crossed, and eyeing him expectantly. He smirked.

He called over his shoulder, "Of course, son, but it is your mother's turn!"

Christine's expression faltered. Her delicate brows raised, and her mouth opened in exasperation. In a weak attempt at avoidance, she began backing up the steps.

"Erik, no." His smirk widened into a grin. In the midst of all the commotion, Josephine had reached the doorway. Christine felt a light push at her back.

"Josephine, you too?"

"It appears so" Erik said. Their daughter giggled.

Christine shrieked as Erik heaved her over his broad shoulder, just as he had with Alexandre. "Come, my beautiful bride, it's a bit too warm in the house."

Christine was unable to stop laughing. She felt like a little girl, playing as she was. Her attempt at relieving his solid grasp from her person was in vain until he finally released her.

She flew into the drift right beside Alexandre. Pure joy overcame her being. Alexandre, sensing a prime victim, immediately jumped, barely giving Christine an opportunity the catch her breath.

"Alexandre!" She almost screeched.

Josephine then proceeded to jump in the snow, joining her mother and brother in the icy bank.

The former Daroga of Mazandaran approached the four on his pony, cocking his head slightly to gauge the scene.


	14. Chapter 14

The frozen precipitation created a blurring effect- affecting one's vision severely. Nadir hunched over his pony's broad shoulders- a poor effort indeed to shield against the growing windchill. Beckoning to him, however, was the branching light permeating from the farmhouse. _Thank God_ he thought to himself. The aging man was not sure if he could endure any more of the freezing French countryside, much preferring basking in the hot rays of his home country. No more of that, though, he bitterly remembered. _That_ is over. A portion of his life he duly hated and loved, fought against and accepted. In one sense it granted him his most cherished memories: his wife, son. And working for the royal family certainly did give him a sense of pride, for a time.

But it also was dark, tangling web. 'Rosy Hours' Erik used to call them. A seething, dangling, taunt. Foul duties and grim realities melded with the good in his remembrances, ebbing back and forth through his conscience. All he could do was move forward, he resigned. His God had bestowed upon him a second chance, another life that was his for the choosing- to finally, firmly take step in his own decisions, and not in accordance to the whims of others out of some misguided sense of duty. His only duty now was decided by him, and he gladly embraced the fact. Perhaps Erik was a surrogate son of sorts, one he sought to look after, protect. Parallels were rampant between his dead family and this very alive one indeed, and the masked man seemed to be the connector between the two.

Only a few more minutes in this blasted weather, he thankfully mused. Nadir had recently found a home, taking pride in the small, but comfortable flat in town. Much warmer than an oceanside farm, yet still close to the house, and,- he could scarcely believe it- his adopted niece and nephew. The title of 'Uncle' had become more permanent now, and he cherished in it, finding contentment in that peaceful kind of relationship that had remained so distant to him for long, empty years.

With such close residence to town, Nadir Khan had taken up working in a financial office, for a Mr. Bordeaux. Erik's recommendation had greatly helped, and he found the work rather enjoyable, despite its predictability. In fact, he had expected finding pay to be much more difficult, because of his aging state, yes, but also his immigrant status. He had learned though, that any associate of Erik's would be comfortable with an outsider, and he was grateful for Mr. Bordeaux's open-mindedness in that realm.

As mail to his friend was sent to his office, he regularly delivered it to the family, and this was of no exception. The only suspicion he had, however, was who it was from, in particular. The letter, whatever it contained, had an elegant seal, the infamous name _De Changy_ stamped clearly. Now, Nadir was not one to entertain Erik's character-defaming tirades, but he knew the his friend clearly hated this De Chagny man in particular, for reasons Nadir was only too aware of.

Oh, and the letter was addressed to Christine. _Great_.

Subtle laughter broke his present worries, however, as he noticed in the near distance the children playing in the snow-and, could that be _Erik_?

Yes, he had certainly noticed a change in his friend, a calmness that had overtaken his usually high strung and blunt manners. Perhaps it was a newfound stability, or the fact that he finally grasped his own life back. Maybe this light mood would allow Erik to take his delivery more maturely, then.

"Hello, Daroga. Braving the storm today?" He quipped, clearly trying to cover his embarrassment of being caught in such a disheveled state: soaked coat, hair askew. Erik's voice was raised a bit, fighting the rapidly growing sounds of the oncoming weather.

"Uncle Nadir!" The young boy said, quickly running over as the older man dismounted. The brunt of his weight mixed with the chill made him grimace upon landing.

"Alexandre, another foot taller, I see." The growing boy smiled proudly at that.

The boy's mother got up from the ground, taking her husband's hand in thanks. She seemed even more abashed than him at the moment, wet spots splotching her blue dress from the snow.

"I must apologize, Nadir, I must have lost track of the time." Christine said, her husband scoffing.

"Not at all. Please, do not put up appearances for my sake. It is a pleasant sight to see." Nadir commented. In fact, he was rather envious, albeit lightly, about the family's happiness. It made him sorely miss those moments with his own, made him wish he had cherished them more.

"Oh, do not worry yourself, Christine, the Daroga does not care. If he did, he would be long gone." Erik chimed, picking up Josephine and swiftly carrying her from the storm.

"Come inside, please. Let us eat. Dinner will be ready shortly, and it is much too chilly." Christine offered.

"Yes, thank you, I am rather looking forward to that." Nadir spoke. He perhaps said it too fast, as his friend quickly picked up on his thin blood, not quite yet accustomed to the northern latitude.

"Of course he is." Erik said.

Distracting from her husband's rude behavior to their guest, she addressed her son, "Alexandre, will you please put his horse away? Perhaps put a blanket on, I fear it will get rather cold for the poor beast tonight."

"Yes maman." Alexandre said, gently aiding the near shivering pony to the stable.

* * *

After dinner, and the children fast asleep, Erik stared at Nadir, as he had been periodically over the course of the evening. Those yellow eyes never ceased to unnerved him. Sipping his coffee as casually as could be managed, Nadir was sure his friend sensed something was wrong. Now would be as good of a time as any, right? He was not even sure if the children knew about this De Changy fellow, and knew that he was correct in his assumption that this was not a light topic, best to wait until after supper. It _was_ best to wait, right?

Mustering up his courage to approach the topic on his mind, he decided it was time to give over the envelope. It immediately grew heavier in his pocket.

"Christine, I have something for you. It arrived at the office only a few days ago."

All three at the table eyed the blue De Changy crest, showing proudly on the plain white paper. Erik stilled.

Christine, not sure what else to do, whisked the note out of Nadir's hand, a white pallor spread across her face as the clock chimed ten chords.

The two men followed her wide eyes, darting rapidly across the page.

Nadir could sense it. Something was deathly wrong. And in a way, he already knew what it was. Glancing over to Erik, he knew her husband had caught on too. What would he think, having his wife receive a letter from her former _fiance_?

Christine set the offending object on the table, a heavy scrape resounding against the wood floors as she stood up. Erik's pale hand immediately darted out, spilling coffee all over the thick parchment as he gripped Christine's wrist.

"Read it."

The words seemed to cling to the room's very walls, painting the surroundings like dust. Brow furrowed, her shining eyes glared at his hand, the thin fingers swallowing half of her arm. She yanked it away, and took up the paper. Perhaps she sensed an accusation in those words. In all honesty, Nadir was anxious to uncover the message as well.

 _Little Lotte,_

 _Over these passing years, I have often thought about you, and have prayed for your continued happiness. Meg Giry has told me of your two children. How proud you two must be! The Vicomtesse and I have four ourselves, and such blessings they are._

 _I am afraid I bring you grave news, however. This reason spurred me to write to you. I am aware that your husband has been gone quite some time. As you probably know, my family continues to maintain close ties with the Garnier through our patronage. This relationship allows me to keep a ready ear to the comings and goings of the staff there. Today a group of men came in, just as I was finishing up paperwork in the office. They seemed dangerous, and they were looking for you, Lotte._

 _Not knowing what this may mean for you, I thought it best to communicate that this unsettles me deeply. Stay safe, Christine. If you or your family should need anything, I am more than willing to help._

 _Yours, Raoul De Changy_

It was the recipient of the message to breach forth and slice through the silence.

"Erik", her entire body was focused on him, her voice quiet, trusting, "What are we to do?"

"Wake the children. It's time to leave."


	15. Chapter 15

**It's been** **a while! We're building up to the climax now, a few more chapters and this story will be concluded. This chapter was extremely difficult for me to write, as I wanted to cover a lot of conflicting emotions and motivations. Logistics were hard too. I tried to make it as realistic as possible. Thank you for reading!**

 **p.s. I had some formatting issues earlier, but they're fixed now.**

"Wake the children. It's time to leave." Erik said.

Christine chilled. Of all situations in the realm of possibility, she did not ever conceive this one to occur. _Stupid Christine. Stupid Erik. Stupid Nadir._ Her thoughts became clouded, muddling in shock. Her gaze bore into that of her husbands, searching for… what? Confirmation? Affirmation? Truth? She already knew it, anyway. The Shah's supporters, whoever these men were, had reached Paris. They had sought Erik for seven years, all spurred by their rigid sense of justice. Did she really think they would have gone back in defeat? Paris. Not far from- no, surely not! Even despite her rather tumultuous tenure at the Garnier, the papers nor the public had gained the knowledge of her family's whereabouts. Those who had know of her family's residence, Madame Giry, Meg, Raoul, and possibly Phillippe, would not betray her in that way. The Count was not fond of her, she knew, but he stood nothing to gain from helping another country's law enforcement return a fugitive. That's what Erik and Nadir were, she thought bitterly. And so was she. It didn't make sense. Madame Giry had passed years ago. There was no way a group of foreigners with no contacts with nobility could get their hands on private information, mail lists… And it had been months since Erik returned, his trail was long buried, if they were even following it anymore. Interrogation? But Raoul wrote the letter hours after he had seen them. It seemed safe to count him out. Phillippe seemed too far of a stretch, he rarely attended the Opera anymore, as Meg had mentioned in one of her lett-

Meg! She would be in rehearsals during this time! It definitely would not take too much asking around to pry information from a stagehand with a few francs as to who knew Christine Daae. No, they wouldn't track Erik using 'Opera Ghost', or whatever names he had been called over the years, much too conspicuous. The Phantom was dead to Paris, anyway. No, they would use her name, someone with contacts in the city. Dear God, what did they do to Meg?

"I think they took Meg."

The two men looked at her in suspicion, urging her to explain further. "Possibly four people are linked to us, and know where we are. One is dead, two have influence and are poor targets, wealth and prestige behind them. And if they were asking around the Opera House, that leaves one remaining option."

Her voice quivered as she trailed off, but she summoned the courage to keep going, they probably had little time to spare. "If they talked to her, she wouldn't have given our location easily, if at all. I pray they didn't"

Tears began to spill over her eyes. How could they have pulled her friend, her sister into this? Kidnapping? Worse? She had no idea. Yet, there was still a chance she wasn't there that day, or had missed their pursuers entirely.

"What is the date on the letter, Christine?" His lips barely moved. She knew where this could be headed. Nadir looked down, staring into the steaming coffee cup.

"Six days ago." She said simply.

It was 300 miles to Paris. If a letter could arrive in that time that would mean… No. Breaking from her frightful thoughts, she lifted her eyes from the table. She stopped, however, as she saw her husband yank Nadir from his chair, forcefully slamming him against the wall, the ceramic cup in his hand shattering into jagged pieces on the wooden floor. Somewhere in the scramble, one of Nadir's hands knocked off Erik's mask. The porcelain followed the cup in fragmenting on the ground. He hardly seemed to notice.

"Erik! Stop!" She screamed. He ignored her.

Brutus, who was before peacefully dozing under the table, started growling. At who, she wasn't sure. Probably Erik. Erik held Nadir by the collar with one hand, and with the other he began to slowly asphyxiate the older man. His voice became deadly, the anger feeding itself at this point, quickly spiraling out of control.

"You _fucking idiot_! Did it not occur to you to bring this up sooner? Has it gotten through your thick skull the peril you have put us all in? They could be hours away, hell, less than that! And you decide to put on a charade of normality, endangering the very woman who serves you your meal." The words ended in a slither.

Meanwhile, Erik's grip squeezed tighter and tighter, peppering Nadir's normally tan face with red splotches, angry veins pushing out of the skin. The accusation was meant to garner a reply, but the accused could hardly answer. Brutus started barking repeatedly now. She heard Macbeth join in upstairs.

"Erik! We don't have time for this!"

He loosened his hold on Nadir, followed by a sharp inhalation of breath. Sputtering for air, he finally resumed enough energy to respond. To Christine's horror, Nadir eyed Erik with a profound sense of disgust- bordering on rage.

"I did not save your life, _Ahriman_ , for you to attack me like one of your victims. Remove your hands and we can talk."

Erik began to slowly relinquish his grip, but still held onto the man's neck steadily.

"Erik, stop this at once!" Christine attempted to take control of the ever growing tension in the room. It failed.

"What will you do, Erik? Kill me? In your own home, in front of your wife, with your children upstairs?" Nadir spat. Erik remained unmoving.

"I made a mistake. I should have brought the letter to both of you immediately. I apologize." With no leeway to get out of Erik's choke hold, he decided to change tactics.

"Three, Four, Five hours. It makes no difference. How fast can the five of us travel, anyway? There are only two horses who can flee fast enough to make a difference, and if what Christine said is true, her friend is in terrible danger. You would abandon her?"

"If it meant protecting my family, yes." Erik's eyes were wild, glaring in hatred.

"Then do as you say. This ends here. We will finish what he have started, _Doost-e-man_ ".

Nadir was right. How could they run? Traveler was too old, Nadir's pony could only bear the load of one person, Oberon could never outpace a trained force with two people. It was impossible. Running had never worked, she knew. Avoiding the crushing weight of decision at the Opera House, she ran then. Erik ran for seven years, and it didn't work. All in vain. Everything she had to bear alone, the joys of pregnancy, the stages of childhood in her children's lives, was for nothing. If this didn't end here. Tonight. She was tired of going through her life, a life which she claimed years before, in pain and triumph, in fear and uncertainty. Always hiding from the past sins of the person she loved. No more running. It just delayed the inevitable, suffering was sure to follow. Now, seemingly, fate had forced their hand. And she accepted it. Accepted it because she was forced to. There was not just herself and Erik to think about. Her children, they needed a father. A present one, in their lives. Christine was utterly unwilling to pass on the dead weight of a father gone to her children. She knew that weight, carried it with her still. And if avoiding that life for her children meant bloodshe-

In a brief motion, Erik finally relented, pushing Nadir off his person in a disgusted panic. He was pacing, Nadir gasping for air, dogs barking. Christine couldn't think. She needed to _think_. To figure out a plan to avoid the possible destruction of those she loved. Erik stilled. His eyes locked away from Nadir, her, this complete mess they were all entangled in in the small space. She followed his sightline-

Their children stared back at him, faces stunned in fear. Josephine started sobbing. Another noise compounded onto the growls and yaps of the dogs, now both scratching violently at the window.

They had witnessed the entire episode.

They had never seen their father's face.

Christine needed to diffuse the situation. She had no idea how either party would react, and she needed to distract her son and daughter. She wasn't sure if their fear stemmed from Erik's violent outburst or his face, but it was probably a mixture of both.

Approaching Alexandre and Josephine, she quietly hushed her daughter, lifting her easily. She gently stroked her daughters black hair, and it seemed to calm her a bit.

They didn't have much time. By the looks of it, Erik was at a complete loss of words. Maybe she was the better one at finding the right ones, at least this time. Making sure to speak clearly, she slowly began to address them.

"Alexander, Josephine, listen to me. What you just saw is not important right now. What is important is that we are all in great danger. Alexandre, I need you to take Josephine to your father's office. There is a lever on the left side, behind the second book on the eight shelf from the bottom. Can you remember that?" He nodded, dimly. "I need you to stay there until one of the three of us gets you, or until sunrise, whichever comes first." She said.

This seemed to break Erik from his cloud, as he cut in- "No Christine, you will take Oberon with Josephine. Alexandre can ride Nadir's pony. You will leave. Rid yourselves of the one who has destroyed your life. Once and for all."

This statement sparked an anger deep in her chest. They spoke of love, a marriage filled with commitment and loyalty. Did that mean nothing to him? Her constant devotion for ten years would not be thrown away in a desperate attempt to flee. The children couldn't possibly be safe. They still chanced running into the group on the road. They were coming from Paris, yes, but she had no closer idea as to which direction her tormentors planned to attack from. And Meg! Her dear friend could quite possibly be alone, held captive at the hands of desperate men, nearing the end of their seven year quest. Did her husband truly think she was going to let him fulfill some suicide mission? Alone?

This whole situation! Because the one unfortunate man she loved most in the world wanted to be happy. He doubted he thought he deserved it, but she knew better. He had given her music, children, a life. More than she could have ever asked for. And despite all of this, he had committed terrible crimes. Was this justice? Retribution? Maybe. Still, it didn't even matter, in the end. She wasn't going to be a bystander to the ruin of her own family. Her own life.

"Erik, no. I'm not leaving you."

A look of grief passed over his face. "Dammit, Christine, leave! I am not budging on this!" His voice was spiraling again. The once delicately held control was rapidly approaching frightening levels. He slammed his fist against the wall, hard. With Josephine cradled in her arms, she didn't even flinch, her expression almost bored, in a patronizing way.

Before she could retort, however, a loud shriek resounded just beyond the door, followed by a gunshot. The scream was high, sharp, in contrast to the wind that had softened over the past several hours.

"Meg!" Christine gasped.

Nadir turned to look outside, peeling back the floral curtains that covered the window.

His eyes widened, and he sputtered quickly. "Six men. They have a young woman, tied at the wrists. About 100 yards North. Erik, where are your firearms?"

Nadir carried one on him at all times, used to maintaining personal security every since his days as police chief. Erik was not fond of this type of weapon, but Nadir was not sure how effective a lasso would be at the current time and distance. Erik understood this. They needed to keep the men as far away from the house as possible. Six men? She was sure there had been more. Nadir must have mentioned it before. Christine could only assume a few had given up, maybe even died. Persia was a thousands of miles away. Now, it only meant greater chances of her family's survival.

"One is inside the piano, underneath the cover. Another is in a pocket on the side of bedside table. Bullet cartridges in the same places", Erik said.

Immediately Nadir was off. Christine clutched her children, then, maintaining a facade of confidence if only to soothe their immense fear. "We will be back for you, I promise."

She would do everything in her power to fulfill that vow. It was then that she understood the immense power of love she had for her children. She truly understood now, the strength Erik drew upon those many years ago when he turned back. It all made sense. There was no other option. Fight, bleed, die, be alone. To protect them.

Brutus and Macbeth quieted more now, still growling menacingly at the door. Christine needed to hurry. Setting Josephine down, Erik approached them suddenly, lowering himself to be face to face. His deformity was on full display now, closer than ever. Christine could tell it terrified him more than anything, and she would have been proud had it not been the life threatening conditions they were put under. He covered Alexandre's shoulder with one of this hands, the other resting on his chest. This action caused him to calm, his expression steadying, realizing it the same father he knew.

"I need you to do as your mother said", Erik addressed his son in a humble, matter of fact sort of way. The emotion hung thick in his eyes, but his voice was not affected. Alexandre nodded dumbly, and before he could go, Erik's eyes darted back and forth, between each child. One hand coming to rest upon Josephine's head. She looked terrified, and Christine did not know again if it was her father's face or the horrible circumstances. Knowing his time was shortening, Erik quickly spoke.

"Your ugly father loves you very much, you know. And he is sorry." He took a brief inhalation of breath, then stood up slowly.

"Go along", he said.

Alexandre grabbed his younger sister's hand, pulling her towards the secret room. He closed the door behind them. Nadir was probably just finishing up loading bullets. They had minutes, seconds, maybe. Erik turned to her, desperately engulfing her into his arms, holding tightly.

"I'm so sorry, ma cherie."

Christine held her face away from him, looking at him fully. He looked frightful. A face that had lost all hope. Palming either side of his face, she spoke directly.

"Now is not the time for apologies. I love you. I don't need some self sacrificing hero! The most courageous thing you can do now is to face them. Face them and win. You are coming out of this alive." With no reaction, she continued. "Promise me!".

He probably felt guilty, guilty for bringing them into all of this. Yes, he had made a grievous error in underestimating his enemies, falling into the embrace of the life he always wanted. And she couldn't blame him for that. She knew he wanted this so badly, just wanted peace. His past experiences relegated him to the false belief that peace was only in death. Erik thought that by atoning for his sins now, with his life, he could break clean from all the magic and ghosts. He probably thought, somewhere in his twisted psyche, that it was for the better, if not for him, for them. The greater good, so to speak. She had to show him, some way, that there was peace for him in life, in claiming it for himself.

"Christine," he began.

"No. Erik. Those seven years were not for nothing. Fight. _Please_. Fight the hardest you've ever fought in your life, because now you finally have something to lose."

She stroked his cheek, leaning upwards to kiss him forcefully. Hands snaked up and threaded through her hair. A nearly but not quite instantaneous reaction to her passionate words. Her tongue stroked his lips, eventually touching his own. Both of their breaths became ragged, positioning their heads quickly to simultaneously get more air and change the angle of the kiss. Erik quickly took over, slowing its tempo. His tongue languidly made motions with her mouth. He feeling hands graced up and down her body, as if memorizing her for the last time. _No! This was not a goodbye kiss!_ She reacted suddenly, pressing into his body as if to merge together. Her feet stood on top of his, keeping him in place. She pulled him by the neck deepening their contact. He made a noise in surprise. Finally winning out, she ended it to look him straight in the eye.

"Promise me", she said.

He paused them, expressions flooded with strange emotions.

She waited.

"I promise."

With that, a determined endurance settled over him. She could tell in his body language. His fists bunched inward on themselves, the blood fleeing and making his hands look deathly white. His face set in a calm anger, as if he was used to this mode of operating. It was bitterly stoic. She didn't want to think about, but thankful nevertheless, for both of the men's experience. It may be the only thing that would make them capable of surviving the night.

Nadir returned, handing over a gun to each of them. "You know how to shoot?" He said.

"Yes." Christine answered.

Her voice morphed into an emotionless surety. Was she prepared to shoot someone? To kill? It was the only way to avoid the carnage of her family. Police authorities were miles away, and surely the Opera Ghost wasn't on good terms with the Surete. She took the lead of Erik and Nadir. It was the only way to do this.

"Christine, listen to me. I need you to go upstairs. Do not turn on any lights. They cannot know anyone besides Nadir and I are here. I am going to head out and meet them. I'm keeping with the assumption that they want to avoid killing me. For now. Bring me back to Persia to await justice."

Christine shivered, but kept her eyes towards him, assuring him her understanding with repeated nodding. "I will get Meg. Nadir, stay downstairs, cover me. Christine, crack open the window in our bedroom. Take Brutus and Macbeth, make sure they quiet. On my signal, fire."

A voice, loud and gravely, surged forward. She could not understand its thick, guttural cadences, but the two men did, and they straightened in response. She guessed they were no more than 50 feet away. Two gunshots, spread one after the other with a few seconds between, rang out. She listened to Oberon's painfully sharp wail, dragging out for several seconds. It was the most horrid sound she ever heard. After another second, another shot resounded, and the horse's scream ceased. Another few rounds, and she assumed the other two horses followed. The party wanted to ensure no escape for her husband.

Erik grabbed the oil lamp, tucked the gun in his trouser belt, and casually walked outside, face bare.

 **Ahriman- demon, evil spirit**

 **Doost-e-man- friend of mine**


End file.
